|
The Galan
I'd read about it. I'd looked for it. I'd seen other girls smile. I'd wondered: were those smiles genuine?
Sex hadn't done it for me; my hands hadn't reached it. It would, therefore, be with mechanical assistance that I would discover my G-spot. I would buy a vibrator - not my first, but the first in a long, long while.
Given the nature of my personal challenge, it might seem wrong-headed that I didn't immediately go for a standard G-spot vibrator. It's that curve, which makes the toy look like a U-bend in my eyes. I didn't want to be plumbing; I wanted fabled mind-blowing orgasms. I wanted rub-my-duckie; not toilet duck.
The tip-off cane from one of my permissive friends, actually while we were browsing the shop. 'Try the Gallan.' This advice was enough for me. I now had a long list of one, so I whittled it down, picked the winner and ordered.
The delivery man smiled as I signed for it. Male intuition? The box was brown. Or male sense of humour? He'd just got me out of the shower and the dog was getting in the way of my attempts to hold the robe together, and sign, and hold the box, and try to stop the dog from licking the delivery man into submission - not that the dog would know what to do with him then.
I got the batteries in the toy and tried an exploratory buzz, then I put the toy on the bedside table for later, morning being challenge enough.
I can say it for sure: I am definitely an orgasmic person. In terms of clitoral know-how, my clitoris knows how. No problems there and not much need for more than my fingers. I don't usually use vibrators.
It was tea time when I thought it was probably time to give it a go.
With a sense of ceremony, I took myself to my bedroom, undressed as I think Cleopatra might have undressed, bunched my duvet up against my headboard to recline upon - and I set to work.
The feeling initially was too much, wincingly so, so I lowered the speed and kept a distance, moving the tip of the vibrator around my labia and over my thighs. I didn't want to have orgasm one too quickly, not before I'd got my fantasies going. (His name is Bill - as in Clinton . I'm a latter day Marylyn Monroe; not a Monica.)
It happened anyway. And now, if memory served, my permissive friend having given detailed instructions, I was meant to ride the way to my second and third orgasms - and to reach inside for my G-spot.
Inserting vibrators seems doubly weird to me, as if there should be a man there, so I closed my eyes and thought of Bill. My litany began: 'Happy Birthday, Mr President.' There was some clenching, then I relaxed. The curvy, wavy texture of the vibrator began to enthral me. What was especially nice was that it wasn't thrusting. Was this why I had never had G-spot orgasms before?
I thought, after a minute or so had passed, that I'd found my G-spot. If this was it, however, then it wasn't a button - I mean, of the press-it-fires-instantly-bright-light kind. There was too a distinct sense of needing to pee. I stuck with it, working the tip around and pressing. Then there was a clenching feeling. The orgasm was less localized, more fully spread around me. I'm not sure I made much noise. I hadn't ejaculated.
I didn't want to go on any longer. It was the sweetest feeling. 'You'll know it when you feel it,' my friend had said. So had I or hadn't I felt it?
Further explorations would have to be made.
|
