Bare-bottomed and fully satiated, my body laid stretched across the length of my queen-size bed falling further and further into that misty, stoned headspace. My long-term, casual date for the night rubbed my belly and thighs as I swam through the air trying to catch my breath. My skin felt cushy almost as if every molecule had been dipped in butter.
This, friends, was the first time I’d cum from oral sex — and it was definitely because I was high.
Receiving oral sex has always been an arduous undertaking as I’ve never been able to truly relax enough to enjoy the hard work of sweeties and partners. Years of watching lover-after-lover dip their face between my legs to have me tap them on the shoulder and say, “Babe, it’s definitely not you,” is burned into my memory. And it isn’t them. The naturally covered position of my clit makes it primed for hypersensitivity; almost like licking a battery. Even when dates move their tongue to the hood for indirect stimulation, I’m forever on edge waiting for all my nerve-endings to strike — placing me in a semi-painful, very exposed position (I’m wincing at the reminder).
Resigning myself to Never Cum From Oral Island, I bowed out from any and all attempts to end in a resounding O. Primarily using that time to push myself to the brink and then feel my climax on the other side of an invisible, totally strung out barrier.
Simply: I could be turned on by oral, I could feel a connection through oral, I could even ask for more of it — but I was never going to cum.
I left that part to my hand and vibrator — real experts on the inner workings of my pussy.
I wish it were a lack of trying that kept me away from this golden goal. Not in the least. Multiple workshops, positions, mirrored masturbation sessions, patient partners, eager lovers have all dedicated time to get around the voltage jolt that always happens when a wet tongue goes anywhere near my bits. The frustration (sexual and regular) was eminent as I traipsed into my thirties without this checked off my sexual leaderboard.
Simultaneously, I found myself searching for alternative ways to handle my anxiety through medicinal means a.k.a. weed. The steady symptoms of my anxiety started to spread wider and wider as I crept up to my 30th birthday, causing poorly timed panic attacks and outbursts that had never been part of the day-to-day. And as I was tasked with more and more adulting situations, I desperately needed to keep my mental state in check. Drinking tea, turning off the TV at night, working out — I immersed myself into a lifestyle where I could keep that tightness in my chest at bay. That and the valium kept me from running away at the sight of crowds, heights, tight-spaces, humans. But none of it was working. I got to my thirties and somehow numbed myself to the acceptable self-care routes that had always availed. So, you know, I thought . . . let’s get high!
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Don’t let me mislead you: I have been high before. Many many times before while simultaneously clutching a beer and peering out of my half-shut eyes counting down the socially acceptable moment for me to Irish-goodbye the party. It was more of an afterthought than a conscious decision as I’ve never gone out of my way to pay for the product, and definitely never cared about paraphernalia. But there I was, freshly 30 and looking to self-care in the highest of ways. I cornered my best friend to make my first meetup, select, and purchase:
“What are you looking for?”
“I just need to be able to breathe as I walk through the world.”
She handed me a ziplock pack adorned with a Sharpie scribble atop the cellophane wrapping.
“Jungle Pussy. How much?”
I gave her $60, and she relinquished the baggie into my possession. That plus a $90 pipe from Grey Horse was the perfect splurgy-30 present for me — literally going from zero to $150 just to feel a little better. Happy 30th to me!
It didn’t take me long to get into my self-care rhythm.
Usually, I would begin or end the day with a hit, but on exceptionally heavy days filled with panic moments, I’d dedicate the end of the night to getting high and drifting off to sleep. Sometimes I’d pair it with a highly focused drawing or reading session so that I could really leave my body as I said goodbye to my day. The valium was less needed, and I found myself less overwhelmed in the face of a crisis.
This newfound discovery made its way to me through a “You up?” text message at 10 pm on a Tuesday night. I was, and I was into it. The strain had yet to take effect — leaving me at the perimeter of not giving a fuck. He came over, and we watched an episode and a half of Rick & Morty until our heads bumped — sparking a makeout session that then led him to remove my underwear and move to the lower half of my body. It was less smooth than it reads — lots of me laughing while I watched him figure out the clasp on my skirt.
Usually, I brace myself at the start of receiving — fully prepared to feel that electrifying, overstimulated shock (followed up by me repositioning their head).
This time . . . It was peaceful. I felt like I was truly there.
And when his tongue finally brushed me, the sweeping delight washed over my body as I was finally able to enjoy the ride. Then, 15 minutes later . . . It happened. The combination of Jungle Pussy and the work being put in on my actual pussy exploded into this guttural bellow and then pulsing aftershock. My heavy hands eased the top half of my body away from the bed, “That’s never happened before.”
Since the discovery, I’ve cum from oral over 20 times; sometimes I attempt not getting high first, but it never works. And it doesn’t need to. I’ve found a workaround to my anxiety and orgasm-reach that brought me meteoric results. Thanks, pot.
