Eventually (two minutes? 700 years?) they brought out the big guns, the hallowed Magic Wand. If you’re not familiar, the Wand is a giant vibrator that’s pretty much a jackhammer for the lady parts. If there ever was a vibrator that could easily be converted to gas power (rip cord and all), it would be the Wand.
They applied the Wand, but my body would not succumb to it. I felt my monkey mind cockblocking the insistent ministrations of my electric lover. “Shit, it’s still not happening!” I thought, which for the record, is pretty low on the list of arousing thoughts.
Then it dawned on me. I thought about my best sex ever and how raw chemistry goes a hell of a long way towards arousal. Yes, the simple biological manipulation of body parts is a huge part of sex, but it’s just one part of a complex mix of lust chemicals, scents, the almost divine touch of someone who really does it for you and the particular appeal of a partner’s jawline/chest/thigh/thick dick/whatever.
In this case, all manner of diligent rubbing wasn’t gonna be enough. It’s the same reason a glory hole wouldn’t appeal to me. I’d need some backstory.
Here, I couldn’t just lie down on the massage table thing, spread my legs, and get lost in it.
In discussing the “problems” of sex in How to Think More About Sex, the delightful School of Life co-founder Alain de Botton writes, “Great sex, like happiness more generally, may be the precious and sublime exception. During our most fortunate encounters, it is rare for us to appreciate how privileged we are. It is only as we get older, and look back repeatedly and nostalgically to a few erotic episodes, that we start to realize with what stinginess nature extends her gifts to us — and therefore what an extraordinary and rare achievement of biology, psychology and timing satisfying sex really is.”
But I digress. Through all this, the Wand was determinedly buzzing away, perhaps puzzled, not understanding why I was resisting its charms. I didn’t know what to do, so finally I mentally pulled up the images of my favorite porn. If you must know it’s the one with two college guys who, against their supposed straightness, get too turned on and simply must bone each other immediately.
Eventually, less being swept away by inevitability and more “I will make this happen,” ala Annette Bening, “I will sell this house today!” in American Beauty, I had the orgasm. Check. Not huge, but there. Hey, way to ruin goalless pleasure with a goal, self!
Once the “sex” part was done, we moved back out to the living room. I sat on a couch, and Nanette and Rod settled in on each side. They snuggled in close and handed me an exceptionally good popsicle. We talked about what had gone down and how it was for me. Rod suggested I give the plug another try sometime. I had another popsicle (this is unrelated). It was A+ aftercare.
In the end, I still completely support this kind of work. If you can lie back and enjoy being attended to by two eager pretend lovers, get yer butt on up on that table. (Statistically, it’s likely that you’d dig it: Multipartner sex is the most common fantasy, according to Justin Lehmiller’s Tell Me What You Want.)
For me and my howler monkey mind though, the most thorough fuck of the night was the mind fuck I gave myself. It wasn’t ideal, but lessons were learned. Sex with another person who hotly desires you as much as you desire them is a rare and beautiful thing. This was not it. But it didn’t need to be that. It occupied a different space.
In this space, you can be sexual without worrying about pleasing another (or, like me, you can worry about it anyway) and that feels important. You can go to this place, go really deep sexually and emotionally with two other people, then be on your merry way, with no emotional reverb. And you might even get some popsicles out of the deal.
*Names had been changed. Except mine, which was probably a bad decision.
This article originally appeared on HuffPost in July 2022.
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