The fallacy of masturbatory postponement is the next orgasm you have is never the same as it would have been without the delay. After a week or so, your first orgasm is a slap-in-the-face. Overstimulated and oversensitive, you wish the blood would dissipate and disperse—anything to assuage the overwhelming intensity. You rush for relief and once you get there, you are like, “Shit, I blew my load on this?” The process is one of painful discomfort, followed by disillusionment and despair—and this is after a week of nagging, aching, longing. Masturbatory postponement: where deferment meets disappointment.
What’s more: once you are done, you aren’t done. You think, wow, that sucked so hard I need to go for another one. A second orgasm leads to a third, and a third to a fourth. The second time’s always the charm—you can take time to enjoy it, and it is legitimately relieving—but you always want to one-up the previous one.
The secret is, after orgasm number two, successive orgasms are of decreasing value. Tell me this after I’ve gotten off for the first two times after not getting off for a week, and I will laugh in your face. My vagina knows not reason. Few things are better than getting off and what’s a shitty orgasm compared to—life?
All there people who say they want a life free from sexual compulsion, I mean forget it. I mean, what could ever be better than sex? For sure, even the worst blow job is better than, say, sniffing the best rose…watching the greatest sunset. Hearing children laugh. I think I shall never see a poem so lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut-hosing orgasm. Painting a picture, composing an opera, that’s just something you do until you find the next willing piece of ass. The minute something better than sex comes along, you call me. Have me paged.
But after an hour or so of masturbating, I am depleted and disgusted with myself—disappointed with myself, even. I want nothing more to do with my vagina. I declare, “I NEVER WANT TO GET OFF AGAIN!” I wish I had stopped after number two, before the returns started decreasing. I am at the losing end of a deal I never agreed to enter; at least, I never intended for it to go this far.
In retrospect, my approach of masturbatory deprivation—in the service of not feeling anything, ever, post-boyfriend—was counterproductive. Forget the era of post-boyfriend trauma; on a semi-regular basis, even in an emotionally stable state, I think, “Gee, imagine how lovely it would be if I only needed to get off once a week.” An adequate response to this musing is not to cease getting off. Sure, it would be lovely if we were minimally needy and self-sufficient, but depriving ourselves does not diminish the persistence of our need nor the constant corporeal reminders. Au contraire.
An accurate way to predict how you’d feel about only getting off once a week isn’t to add up the number of times you get off per week then divide by seven. After a week, the situation is qualitatively different. In the interim, you waste a whole lot of time and cognitive energy actively not getting off.
I treat getting off as I treat my laundry—which is to say, with negligence. When you postpone a task as long as possible, the prospect of completion becomes daunting. The imposition is compounded. What could have been a mere annoyance on four separate occasions becomes a full-day fiasco. I used to get smashed to do my laundry because I couldn’t handle it—the month’s build-up. Actually, I used to get high to do my laundry and it solved the problem—of being overwhelmed. Unfortunately, no laundry got done.
This is how I feel about horniness and drugging myself to sleep. Sometimes I become discouraged by the inconvenience of having to get off constantly and I think, “I can get away with not getting off tonight.” If only you could wake up refreshed, sleep it off. Sometimes I do wake up and my horniness has temporarily subsided, mainly because of the slap-in-the-face that is morning. But, ultimately it compounds.
I am better equipped to deal with bodily demands in the morning; the morning is full of unpleasantness and obligations. I just add it to my tab, my morning checklist. That which needs to be taken care of before I am prepared to face the world. The debt I owe by virtue of being alive. I desexualize it entirely—combine it with other aspects of the routine. Thank god for showers and their efficiency, distraction.
If I put it off, it plagues me all day—makes everything that much more difficult. Eating becomes a task punctuated by bouts of eating and touching myself through my pants, contemplating eating—sticking my hands in my pants, assessing how wet I am. The focus expended on eating while horny is tantamount to the focus it took to maintain an eating disorder. Walking becomes a task punctuated by bouts of purposeful transport and sexual preparation, contemplating the physical reality of continuously rubbing my legs together.
Sometimes I think, god, I spend all of my time getting off—it’s pathetic. But I realize that what time I spend actively not getting off, would otherwise be spent thinking about it. In other words, it’s ubiquitous. I might as well suck it up and get off so I have time to do other things—like blog about getting off. Besides, I don’t really spend all of my time masturbating. It’s just that I don’t do anything else. The significance masturbation holds becomes greatly exaggerated when you look at it in terms of number-of-activities per day. If you assess its significance in terms of the actual proportion of time spent masturbating or brain power expended, that’s a whole other story. If I was a well-adjusted and useful citizen who had any obligations other than six hours of class per week, it would pale in comparison to my other accomplishments and engagements and I would probably give it little more thought than eating.
Somehow, masturbation lends itself to procrastination. Probably because it is awesome and you can prolong its awesomeness for quite a while before you realize that it is 3pm and you haven’t eaten anything and you are probably going to pass out if you don’t focus on eating. The procrastination is what makes it seem like a way bigger deal than it is. Like laundry, or anything else that you put off, it becomes both more urgent and more imposing on other aspects of your life.
In high school I used to maintain that masturbating is like cleaning—why bother doing it, when you are just going to have to do it again? There is the futile, task-completion aspect. If I had a choice as to how horny I potentially could be or how frequently I would need to get off, I would only choose to get off twice a week, three times at most. Only twice a week do I ever think, fuck, getting off is amazing. The other times are about getting through the day, getting off in the most satisfying way that incurs the least hassle. I don’t even care if it feels good. I just want to get the job done so I can get on with my life.
Of course, doing something repeatedly that you will have to continue repeating is somewhat futile, especially if most of the satisfaction comes from intermediate completion rather than pleasure. Masturbatory maintenance is necessary if only because once you hit the week mark, masturbating becomes qualitatively different and thoroughly unenjoyable at that. I wish I could rid myself of horniness in bundles, packages. Too bad horniness compounds, rather than existing in discreet entities piling up on top of one another to be disposed of at your administrative convenience.
You can only drug yourself to sleep so many times per week. Okay, I can drug myself to sleep every night of the week, but I can only justify drugging myself to avoid inescapable horniness every so often, because it begs the question: Why not get off before it becomes unmanageable? If I get off in the morning, regardless of how I feel the rest of the day, I can usually manage to avoid the perennial conundrum, the prevalent theme of almost each one of my sleepless nights: I am too horny to fall asleep, but too tired to get off.
I regularly think, fuck, I waste my whole day getting off—why get off now when I will have to get off again later? I attempt to convince myself through logic that masturbating doesn’t work that way. If I postpone indefinitely, I will suffer the preoccupation of impatience. Even worse, I will get off four times in a row and become thoroughly repulsed with my vagina, which knows not reason. The thought “I NEVER WANT TO GET OFF AGAIN” is far more extreme than the thought “I can get away with not getting off tonight.” I should never let it get past that threshold—the point at which I end up binge masturbating to compensate for masturbation deprivation. The only thing more embarrassing than being a compulsive masturbator is being a binge masturbator—it means I don’t even have my shit together enough to masturbate. Now, that’s pathetic.
Compulsive masturbation is efficient, as long as it isn’t employed in the service of avoiding other tasks. It saves all the time I waste procrastinating masturbating.
On the other hand, masturbation deprivation—in the service of not feeling anything, ever, post-boyfriend—proved not to be entirely counterproductive. After getting off, successively, as many times as physically possible, I truly feel nothing. All I want to do is lie in my bathtub and disappear, fade into the tiled oblivion. And I never want to get off ever again for, like, a day! The result seems to be almost the same as it would have been had I gotten off regularly, only the “not wanting to get off ever again” is proclaimed with not as much vehemence, and the estimation of “ever” is reduced to more, like, half a day.