Electrostimulation and Orgasm

February 11, 2013 at 11:38 am (Real Life, Sex) (, , , , , , , )


Having one of the most powerful orgasms of my life while strapped to a massage table in the basement of a suburban home is actually a pretty fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

I met a couple at a kink-friendly party who talked about e-stim and invited me to try it. I’ll admit I didn’t do my homework and didn’t really know what they were talking about; I assumed it was a form of electrical play similar to using a violet wand. So when I accepted their invitation and trekked to their home in the suburbs, I was thinking I might remove my shirt but that was about it.

It was a bit of a surprise when Bob showed me two small objects with electrodes embedded in them and explained that one was designed to be inserted vaginally and one anally. Ohhhh… if I’d been smart I would have been a little more prepared! Apologizing for my unshaven legs, I gamely stripped and lay on the towel-covered table. I inserted the vaginal plug and asked my boyfriend to insert the anal one.  They were attached by leads to a control box that looked, to me, similar to a CB radio, which was attached to a laptop for finer control of the sensations the electrodes would produce. Bob started with a basic pattern that felt like something expanding inside those orifices, though it was simply the muscles reacting to the electrical stimulation by expanding and contracting.

It was probably not the best way to start, since I wasn’t at all aroused at this point, and my arousal certainly doesn’t start with being penetrated. Truthfully, I wasn’t enjoying the sensations. Bob kept asking questions about how I felt and making adjustments, then suggested we try some electrodes on a breast. He placed two stick-on electrodes on either side of my right nipple, near the edges of my areola (which are quite large) and we removed the anal probe in order to hook up that lead to the electrodes with a splitter. The sensation there was fascinating and definitely arousing – it felt as if the nipple was being pinched, but the sensation was also distinctly below the surface of the nipple. Now, I absolutely adore breast play and always want lots of nipple stimulation during sex, so this is a key to my arousal, and I started having trouble staying quiet and still, much to the amusement of the audience of my boyfriend and Bob’s wife, Jenny. (Watching someone experiencing e-stim is about as interesting as watching paint dry; there’s really nothing to see except a naked person lying on a table. Jenny was knitting through most of the playtime! It’s only fun for other people if they’re driving the equipment, or when the subject starts squealing with pleasure.)

The nipple stimulation was so wonderful, I asked for electrodes on my left breast as well. This meant disconnecting the vaginal probe, which was fine with me – even with the arousal brought on by the nipple action, I wasn’t getting much out of the vaginal stimulation. So out it came and two more electrodes went on, not quite in the same position but still generating a very similar sensation. Having both nipples stimulated simultaneously is probably one of my most favorite things ever, and I loved it, gripping the edge of the table to keep from arching my back and squirming. I breathlessly told them that it would be heaven to be strapped down and stimulated with a vibrator along with the nipple stim, and I regretted not bringing one with me. Never fear – Bob and Jenny kindly offered the services of their Hitachi, and of course they had a handy pair of velcro cuffs to attach my hands over my head to the table. I just closed my eyes and let the sensations wash over me.

The boyfriend manned the vibrator, and eventually Bob joined in, experimenting with me. He tried inserting another vibrator in my vagina while the Hitachi covered my clit, but at first it felt like he’d inserted something anally – perhaps because of the angle – and I asked him to stop. No offense taken – try something else. He started playing with my nipples along with the electrical stimulation going on, which was phenomenal – very much the type of stimulation on the edge of overstimulation that I crave. The Hitachi was a bit too much, though – I tend to need very focused clit stimulation, and the ball top of the classic Magic Wand was a bit too generalized for me. We took a break from it, and after a few minutes I asked the boyfriend to finger my clit instead. He was game, and it was comforting to have him close and participating in this with me.

Unfortunately, my cell phone started going off with text message alerts, which distracted me quite a bit, and I probably would have reached orgasm much faster if there hadn’t been that break in concentration. I was at a peak of arousal without the release of orgasm for quite a long time, which is both delicious and agonizing – my arms were getting sore from pulling at the restraints, my ladybits were on the edge of numb, though my breasts were still in heaven. The boyfriend stuck to his task, and Bob eventually tried a vibrator inside me again, and that did it – stimulation overload sent me into spasms. My full body reacted to that orgasm – I arched up off the table, disconnecting one set of electrodes in the process, and I know I was loud – it was a deep, rich release. As I came back down, it took me quite a while to calm my breathing, and the boyfriend stayed close to me while I slowly relaxed again. I had a moment of overwhelming emotion that almost broke into tears (not unusual for me after a strong orgasm). Mostly I was terribly dehydrated.

After a bit of wind-down time we did play with a violet wand, which I’d love to experiment with more, then I dressed and we sat around talking for a couple more hours. Bob and Jane are older than my boyfriend and I, they have some interesting hobbies aside from electrical sex, and they were very kind, generous hosts. I’m very grateful for the experience they gave me and sent them a thank-you note afterwards.

It’s an adventure I’m very glad to have had, for a number of reasons. It was an aspect of sexual stimulation I’d never explored and found that I enjoyed very much. I’ve often mused on the possibilities of extreme arousal and sensual stimulation, and how that would impact me with my orgasm difficulties (see here and here), so this experience showed me that while it wouldn’t necessarily speed up my ability to orgasm, reaching orgasm was definitely possible with this kind of stimulation, and could result in a very powerful orgasm at that.

It was also the first sexual experience I’ve had in a long time that involved someone touching me in a sexual way for whom I didn’t feel any kind of sexual attraction. I’ve had poor experiences in the past with sexual contact from men I wasn’t really attracted to, but this was different – not clinical, but not wholly disengaged either. I think it was simply friendly play – Bob wanted me to have a good experience with one of his favorite toys, he wanted to share his knowledge, and he did things he thought would help me get the most out of it. Those things involved touching me in sexual ways, and I was okay with that, his wife was okay with that, and it didn’t mean anything more than friendly assistance. I’ve become unused to thinking of sex detatched from emotional connection and sexual attraction, so it is interesting to reflect on the fact that a wonderful sexual experience can take place with someone with whom I don’t have a strong emotional/sexual bond.

I was very grateful that my boyfriend came along for this experience with me. I was concerned that he would be bored, and very happy that he gamely participated. His closeness increased my comfort level in the experience, and added an element of emotional intimacy that probably helped as well. He has told me he enjoyed the experience, too, and that it is something he’d love to see happen again someday – a fantasy we share of bringing me to orgasm under group stimulation. Another adventure to find in the future.

While I wouldn’t invest in the equipment myself, given the option to play with e-stim toys again, I would definitely do so. Exploration of this kind is part of the life adventure I seek, and it was well worth a Sunday afternoon in the suburbs.

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Healing.

September 27, 2011 at 3:29 pm (Real Life, Relationship, Sex) (, , , , , )


I’ve reached a point in therapy where I need to go deep into an old wound. I need to do so with compassion, the objective being to forgive myself for something I once did, something I am ashamed of, which I believe to be the root of a lot of my issues. This is that story.

When I was twenty-two years old, I married a man I’d met about a week prior. Actually, I’d known him for several years, but we had never spent a moment together until then. He had been in prison, and we’d corresponded with letters and tapes. He professed to love me. No one else ever had. I didn’t think I would find someone else who ever would. I liked being wanted, being needed.

I wasn’t attracted to him. I was pretty uncomfortable with him, actually. But I had promised to marry him, and I did.

I am deeply, deeply ashamed of that. I should have known better.  But he had crossed the country to be with me. Actually, he’d broken laws to be with me, which led to our first few years being a pretty fucked-up mess. At the time, I didn’t think there was any way I could have said “no”. Deep down, I may have felt that the risk of saying “no” was greater than the risk of continuing. I chose to continue.

The marriage lasted seven years. It was about two years into it when he began using heroin. He’d been a junkie before, and I knew it. I pretended not to realize what was going on for another year. By then, we were deep in debt. The first time he overdosed, I called 911 and we went to the hospital for him to be revived. The second time he overdosed, I just sat on the bed and waited to see if he would come around or not.

Eventually, he went back to jail for a few months, and somehow I found the strength to tell him he couldn’t come home when he got out. He did anyway — he had nowhere else to go. It took about a week of constant fighting, and an OD suicide attempt, before he got it through his head that I was serious.  He packed up and moved out of state, and he has never come back.

Except in dreams. For years I dreamed about trying to get him to leave; dreams where I would come home and he’d be there, acting like he belonged there. I’d have to convince him all over again to leave.

And there were dreams about a panther lying on my chest, patiently waiting for me to make one wrong move so it could tear my throat out.

I still have these dreams sometimes, over ten years later.

I did a lot of work to get past this, to build up my self-esteem and re-enter the world as a strong, confident, single woman. I did a pretty good job of getting my life back together. Except for one thing. I still blame myself for those seven years of hell. I put myself into that situation. I let it continue. I let myself be abused both emotionally and physically. And I’ve never forgiven myself for that.

And there’s one more thing. The night before he left, we had sex. At this point, I truly hated him, but was so relieved that he’d finally relented and was leaving. I had no desire for him, but he knew how to touch me, and I gave in to him. I had an orgasm.

Let’s pause for a moment and think about that.

If you’ve read my blog, you know I have difficulty with reaching orgasm with a partner. Now, truthfully, he was not wholly responsible for this orgasm, but when we had sex we frequently used a position where I could reach my clit while he was inside of me. So not only did I let him fuck me one last time, I brought myself to orgasm while he was doing so.

I feel sick to my stomach every time I’ve thought of this in all the years since. I despise myself for allowing that to happen.

I’m starting to realize that somehow, deep down in the festering heart of that wound, I may have decided that I would never be allowed to have an orgasm with a partner again. That my body’s refusal to orgasm through a partner’s stimulation is my punishment on myself for doing something that so disgusts me to remember.

The first man I got involved with after the marriage ended told me, directly and explicitly: “I am not your ex.”  I took that to heart, and I’ve never again projected my distrust of my ex onto any other man. I don’t have trust issues, I don’t expect every man to abuse me, and I can stand up for myself in a relationship.

But I certainly don’t trust myself. And I’ve never forgiven myself. And in order to move on, I need to learn how to do both of those things.

 

 

 

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Clamps.

May 14, 2011 at 10:22 am (Sex) (, , , )


I have one boyfriend in particular to thank for my nipple clamps. We spent several weekends in a row visiting “novelty” shops. He persisted in buying me pair after pair until we found the ones that were just right – fine-tuned to provide the exact level of pain. Ugly things, they are – large, shiny and complicated-looking. But he succeeded in finding the ones that are perfect for me.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

He was tall, dark and handsome – Italian. He had the social skills of a squirrel – skittish and apt to run away. He also loved trees as much as a squirrel, and on our first date, he stroked and embraced the tree in my front yard.

On our second date, he filled a bathtub with scalding hot water and invited me in. I let it cool down first, then floated my assets across the water. Perhaps it was that scene – my buoyant breasts on the surface – that made him decide my nipples were begging for clamps.

He was the kind of man who was always prepared, and he had a new waterproof vibrator waiting for me. It had a smiley face on it, and one thing I’ve always regretted (not the only thing, in this case) is that he didn’t actually give me that vibrator. Maybe it was how he used it, but I loved that vibrator. It was good to me.

He was clumsy and apt to hurting me without realizing it – slamming me around or squeezing me too hard. But he was patient – oh, was he beautifully, remarkably patient. A rainy Saturday morning with nothing else to do, we decided to get out of bed and sprawl naked in his living room instead. The vibrator came along, and he got into a comfortable position, and worked me over until I came. Never a hint of frustration, never a twitch; no words of encouragement, either, that I recall, but just steady, continual focus until the task was accomplished. When I was through, he declared, in his dry yet peppy way, “Girls are fun.”

That was the thing – girls were physical puzzles to be figured out, challenges to overcome, nice toys with a surprise inside. But that was his limit; venturing into an emotional engagement with a girl was beyond him. He couldn’t carry a conversation even if it were as light as a feather. His most common verbal output was reading a sign or billboard aloud. I was frustrated – in a way, furious – to discover he moderated a very active online messageboard with thousands of posts to his name. He was conducting discussions on topics we could potentially have in common and share over coffee, tea, pipes and cigarettes; but it had never occurred to him that I might like to be talked to, or with, on any of those subjects. He loved playing with me, but relating to me? Wasn’t possible.

I was torn. He could make me come, and not just with the vibrator. That became the priority – walk in my door, or I in his, and orgasm was imminent. Laying on my back on the sofa, my hips up on the armrest, he folded himself down to me and ran his tongue into those wet, hungry folds and I came. In bed, he pulled me on top of him, both of us upright and tangled together with just enough room for a finger to reach my clit as he fucked me, and I came. But I didn’t care about him, because he couldn’t give me anything to care about – nothing revealed, no history, no dreams, no opinions. We lived in different cities, and the distance kept the sex chemicals bubbling, but that was all there was.

I broke up with him by email.

He asked if we could stay friends, and I said no.

The nipple clamps he gave me are stored in a suitcase with other rarely-used toys. But every time I get that ache in my nipples that only clamps can satisfy, I think of him.

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More thoughts about orgasms.

April 23, 2011 at 9:56 am (Relationship, Sex) (, , , )


It’s not a flaw that my stomach isn’t flat like a supermodel’s.

It’s not a flaw that my breasts are no longer high and perky like an 18-year-old’s.

It’s not a flaw that I can’t put my ankles next to my ears like a gymnast.

Why should I think it is a flaw that I don’t orgasm as easily or often as other women?

I’m tired of feeling like something is wrong with me. I’m tired of sexual encounters that become excessively focused on whether or not I have an orgasm. I just want to enjoy sex – and for me, that enjoyment might not include an orgasm. I want to be okay with that. I want my partners to be okay with that.

I’ve decided that my orgasm is my responsibility. Not my partner’s. I don’t mean that the only way I’ll have an orgasm is if I give myself one, though I have no problem being – ahem – hands-on in addressing the need. I do mean that I want to walk away from the notion that a man has to “give” me an orgasm. It’s not some trinket in his pocket he can hand out at will. It’s not a commentary on his skills, or my level of enjoyment, if I don’t orgasm. It’s just the way I’m wired. My body responds to stimulation differently than other women might.  Yes, there are “issues” involved that may be preventing me from responding as fully or easily as I could – but that’s also my problem and mine alone. And this is a problem I have had for over 20 years of sexual activity… so I’ve reached the point where I no longer want to view it as a problem. This is the way I am.

In a way, it strikes me as a sexist and patriarchial approach to pleasure — the thought that a man is responsible for giving a woman an orgasm. Think about the stereotypical pattern of a male-female sexual encounter: the man stimulates the woman through foreplay, maybe licks her or fingers her to orgasm, then fucks her to reach his own orgasm. Men are encouraged to put the woman’s pleasure first. In most conventional – if we must use the lousy term, “vanilla” – sexual interactions, the man is in charge, the woman comes first, then her body is used for the man to achieve his pleasure. He is responsible for both her orgasm, and his own. What?

I’ve fallen into that pattern many times. I’ve accepted that stereotype – the man will try to “give” me an orgasm, he may or may not succeed, then he moves on to tending to his own orgasm. I may try to give him pleasure directly and make him come — BUT: I have never felt bad, or insufficient, or un-feminine, if I was unable to “give” him an orgasm. So my hand or jaw got tired or whatever – okay, we move on and do something else. It’s not a failure on my part or commentary on my lack of sexual skills if I didn’t make him come.

I’m going to say this again, because I think it’s important: As a woman, I have never felt like a failure as a sexual partner for not making my partner achieve orgasm. Yet I have encountered many men who have expressed a sense of inadequacy because they didn’t make me come. This is nonsense. I don’t want my partners to feel that way.

I can — and often do — have an exciting, satisfying sexual encounter without an orgasm. That’s the way I am. All aspects of sex are a pleasure;  and there are many pleasurable things we do that don’t have an explosive finale.  There is great pleasure in the experience. For me, the objective is reveling in that experience: the emotional thrill of fulfilling a desire; the happiness of physically expressing affection; the amazement at the varying textures of skin and hair; the discovery and re-discovery of places that are rarely touched but which delight in contact. Focusing intently on achieving an orgasm seems to dismiss or minimize the joy of the overall experience.

I like orgasms; I have very hard, long, deep orgasms when I do have them, and if I want one I’ll do what it takes to get one – whether I need to touch myself to do it, or just tell my partner precisely what to do. But my partner’s pleasure shouldn’t be decreased if I don’t come; and it shouldn’t be viewed as an inferior sexual encounter if it doesn’t involve an orgasm.

The only sin I believe in is the sin of comparison. I don’t want my body and my responsiveness and my orgasmic ability compared to other women anymore – by my partner, or by me. Take me as I am.

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