In all of those moments, it’s not the orgasm I remember, but before the orgasm, the anticipation of it.
Like baseball happens between the action, my sexual nostalgia is filled with these sorts of innings. Have you ever tried to hold on to an orgasm, put it in the lyrics of a song, or, focus it into an object in your room, or, breathe it in as her perfume, something you can look at again, hear or smell again, something that will trigger that unbelievable feeling of coming before it all goes away? It doesn’t last very long, does it? And you can never recreate it, no matter how many times you close your eyes, breathe deep and try.
I wonder what life would be like if orgasms could last up to three and a half hours, the same length as watching an installment of The Lord of the Rings. Do you think we’d even need movies then? Do you think we’d ever go out, get jobs, remember to eat? I guess we’d have to. I guess if it lasted that long, like anything else, we’d get so used to it, sex would actually be less interesting, less exciting, and not having an orgasm would be the greatest feeling in the world because it’d be so fleeting.
I don’t know, it just seems like life is always turning us inside out, and here’s just one more example, the relationship between my sexual appetite and the orgasm, which I view as the main course and the dessert all thrown into one delicious dish.
But, the craziest thing is, it’s the appetizer that fills my memories.