Okay, so it doesn't trip off the tongue quite as easily as "NaNoWriMo" or "NaBloPoMo". "NaCroPoTiPe" sounds kinda like the Aztec god of crappy holiday candy ("Aw, damn... gummie Quetzalcoatls again!"). However, while it may lack the "prestige" and "other participants" of the aforementioned events, NaCroPoTiPe is a special time. A special time... and a special place.
What do you say... are you ready for National Crotch Poking Time Period?
I Have Always Been One of Those Ladies Who Takes a Really Long Time
A really long time. A reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally long time.
I was made aware of this issue fairly early in life.
"Why won't you come yet?!" spat my first boyfriend, scowling and flopping next to me in bed. I was embarrassed, upset and strangely guilty... I felt like he wanted his time back. "I could have been licking a non-defective woman!" was the implication, "Or at the very least engaging in petty vandalism behind the Econo-Mart!"
What do you say... are you ready for National Crotch Poking Time Period?
I Have Always Been One of Those Ladies Who Takes a Really Long Time
A really long time. A reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally long time.
I was made aware of this issue fairly early in life.
"Why won't you come yet?!" spat my first boyfriend, scowling and flopping next to me in bed. I was embarrassed, upset and strangely guilty... I felt like he wanted his time back. "I could have been licking a non-defective woman!" was the implication, "Or at the very least engaging in petty vandalism behind the Econo-Mart!"
Thankfully (in my mind), most future conquests were unconcerned with my little "issue". Deeply unconcerned. Cupcake and I once discussed this phenomenon.
Cupcake: "[Then-Partner] has no idea whether it happens or not. I love it when he says, 'Nobody makes you come like I do!'"
Me: "... which is to say, NOT AT ALL?"
Cupcake: "Yeah... I mean, by that rationale, EVERYBODY makes me come like he does! Astronauts! Dogs! The mailbox!"
Over the years, my partners' competency levels varied. However, even with men on the studlier end of the spectrum, locating My Own Private Idaho was infrequent, elusive and usually more trouble than it was worth. I tried to identify patterns - did it occur when I was drunk? Sober? Thinking about licking the film of sexy, sexy evil off of Malcolm McDowell (60's era McDowell, not present-day McDowell, who looks like Sir Anthony Hopkins dove off a tall building and absorbed the entire impact with his face)? There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to my response, however. Sometimes it happened, and both parties were happier for it. Sometimes it didn't, and one party (read: not I) was a bit... frustrated.
The frustration always baffled me. I liked sex- I loved sex! Sex was the proverbial bomb! Sullying a perfectly good bed-tussle with an Orgasm Reconnaissance Mission seemed like interrupting a no-hitter to go kick a field goal. "But... but... but that was FUN!" I'd think, praying that the stars would align, Idaho would be located and we could resume lovin'. "I'm good at THAT! I kind of suck at this! No pun intended!" I loved the attention lavished on my body. I hated the pressure it always carried.
"Women have no idea how much pressure men are under." I've heard this dozens of times. "Each and every time, you can't stop thinking, 'Don't come yet! Don't come yet! FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, don't come yet!"
However, "need for improved skill" is far different than a "mysterious, intermittent inability to perform skill at all". The former is forgivable; it's assumed that a little bit of work will correct the matter. The latter makes one feel like a damned freak - which is secondary only to "fire ants" on the roster of Things You REALLY Don't Want to Feel Whilst Naked.
And I Despise Samuel Beckett, Too...
Despite the associated trials, tribulations and hang-ups, I still experienced the occasional partner-provided Idaho excursion - and plenty of self-administered ones, too. That is... until eight months ago. Something... happened. What, I cannot say. I didn't make any major relationship or lifestyle changes. I didn't go on or off any medications. I didn't experience higher or lower levels of stress than usual. Things were chugging along nicely... when suddenly, my ability to get off ground to a screeching, smoking halt.
"Not even after half an hour," I remarked to one of my sisters, dejected, "Not even after forty-five minutes. Not with various unguents and lotions. Not with porn. Not with really depraved porn. Not even with the five-way detachable shower head."
"Dude," she said, sympathetic, "DUDE."
The aforementioned Waiting For Godot's Climactic Moment scenario was a one-woman play. With a partner? Forget it. I soldiered on, living (and lovin') as per usual. I tried not to let the diminished Southern hemisphere seismic activity bother me. At first, I succeeded. However, there were nights I wound up spitting angry epithets at my own lap. As time went on, they became more and more frequent. And a series of men - ranging in prowess from "half-decent" to "enormous, throbbing tower of awesomeness" - hammered away at the issue, baffled and hurt that their efforts never made a dent.
She Blinded Herself With Science
And then I got the idea of proactively addressing the issue. And sharing it with the internet! But I get ahead of myself.
The evidence was sitting on the coffee table, clear as day. Lube... and a copy of Cook's Illustrated.
"You... you... you READ while you're doing it?"
"Um... yeah," I said, "Because, you know, it might take a long time? I'd read my Norton Anthology, but it's kind of heavy and I'm afraid of it falling on my head."
I hadn't really analyzed my muffin-buffin' M.O. before. However, it began to dawn on me that my knowledge of my own body - my triggers, my responses, my thought and behavior patterns - might be a little underdeveloped. Make that more than a little. Some women daydream and fantasize. Me? I lay there, wondering if adding Gruyere to corn chowder would be a good idea. SOMETIMES, a warm and wonderful sensation occurs. A lot of the time, I wind up flinging "Carve the Everloving Shit Out of That Holiday Ham" across the room in frustration.
It's not surprising that my ability to get there stopped... it's a miracle that it occurred in the first place. Realizing that I didn't know a goddamn thing about my lady-area's operations was the hard part. It's time to pull up my bootstraps, pull down my pants and get to work.
The Tools:
One (1) bottle multivitamins (per a friend's suggestion).
One (1) bottle special sex vitamins, featuring BIG, LURID PURPLE LETTERING and a picture of a woman with hair like Farrah Fawcett's after several hours of vigorous yanking.
One (1) book, "How To Come So Hard Your Eyeballs Roll All the Way Back in Your Skull and Your Optic Nerve Knits Itself Into a Sock".
Actually, the book is excellent, narrowly-focused, written by a Ph.D. in Clinical Explosive Orgasmology or some such. It's somewhat heavy on the positive self-worth exercises ("Stroke your inner thigh with a feather while repeating 'I AM FULLY ENTITLED TO ENJOY THIS PLEASURABLE SENSATION!'". However, I'm keeping an open mind; the pile of KY-stained recipes on my bookshelf shows the extent of MY subject-matter proficiency. I'll be reading the book cover-to-cover. I'll be doing the exercises, no matter how asinine. I'll be popping my vitamins. And I'll be taking you, dear reader, along for the ride.
I won't be posting every day (do you know how sticky the keyboard would get?), but fear not, there will be reports from the field. National Crotch Poking Time Period has begun. It oughta be an exciting time. Come, take my hand...
... on second thought, don't. But stay tuned.
Cupcake: "[Then-Partner] has no idea whether it happens or not. I love it when he says, 'Nobody makes you come like I do!'"
Me: "... which is to say, NOT AT ALL?"
Cupcake: "Yeah... I mean, by that rationale, EVERYBODY makes me come like he does! Astronauts! Dogs! The mailbox!"
Over the years, my partners' competency levels varied. However, even with men on the studlier end of the spectrum, locating My Own Private Idaho was infrequent, elusive and usually more trouble than it was worth. I tried to identify patterns - did it occur when I was drunk? Sober? Thinking about licking the film of sexy, sexy evil off of Malcolm McDowell (60's era McDowell, not present-day McDowell, who looks like Sir Anthony Hopkins dove off a tall building and absorbed the entire impact with his face)? There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to my response, however. Sometimes it happened, and both parties were happier for it. Sometimes it didn't, and one party (read: not I) was a bit... frustrated.
The frustration always baffled me. I liked sex- I loved sex! Sex was the proverbial bomb! Sullying a perfectly good bed-tussle with an Orgasm Reconnaissance Mission seemed like interrupting a no-hitter to go kick a field goal. "But... but... but that was FUN!" I'd think, praying that the stars would align, Idaho would be located and we could resume lovin'. "I'm good at THAT! I kind of suck at this! No pun intended!" I loved the attention lavished on my body. I hated the pressure it always carried.
"Women have no idea how much pressure men are under." I've heard this dozens of times. "Each and every time, you can't stop thinking, 'Don't come yet! Don't come yet! FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, don't come yet!"
However, "need for improved skill" is far different than a "mysterious, intermittent inability to perform skill at all". The former is forgivable; it's assumed that a little bit of work will correct the matter. The latter makes one feel like a damned freak - which is secondary only to "fire ants" on the roster of Things You REALLY Don't Want to Feel Whilst Naked.
And I Despise Samuel Beckett, Too...
Despite the associated trials, tribulations and hang-ups, I still experienced the occasional partner-provided Idaho excursion - and plenty of self-administered ones, too. That is... until eight months ago. Something... happened. What, I cannot say. I didn't make any major relationship or lifestyle changes. I didn't go on or off any medications. I didn't experience higher or lower levels of stress than usual. Things were chugging along nicely... when suddenly, my ability to get off ground to a screeching, smoking halt.
"Not even after half an hour," I remarked to one of my sisters, dejected, "Not even after forty-five minutes. Not with various unguents and lotions. Not with porn. Not with really depraved porn. Not even with the five-way detachable shower head."
"Dude," she said, sympathetic, "DUDE."
The aforementioned Waiting For Godot's Climactic Moment scenario was a one-woman play. With a partner? Forget it. I soldiered on, living (and lovin') as per usual. I tried not to let the diminished Southern hemisphere seismic activity bother me. At first, I succeeded. However, there were nights I wound up spitting angry epithets at my own lap. As time went on, they became more and more frequent. And a series of men - ranging in prowess from "half-decent" to "enormous, throbbing tower of awesomeness" - hammered away at the issue, baffled and hurt that their efforts never made a dent.
She Blinded Herself With Science
And then I got the idea of proactively addressing the issue. And sharing it with the internet! But I get ahead of myself.
The evidence was sitting on the coffee table, clear as day. Lube... and a copy of Cook's Illustrated.
"You... you... you READ while you're doing it?"
"Um... yeah," I said, "Because, you know, it might take a long time? I'd read my Norton Anthology, but it's kind of heavy and I'm afraid of it falling on my head."
I hadn't really analyzed my muffin-buffin' M.O. before. However, it began to dawn on me that my knowledge of my own body - my triggers, my responses, my thought and behavior patterns - might be a little underdeveloped. Make that more than a little. Some women daydream and fantasize. Me? I lay there, wondering if adding Gruyere to corn chowder would be a good idea. SOMETIMES, a warm and wonderful sensation occurs. A lot of the time, I wind up flinging "Carve the Everloving Shit Out of That Holiday Ham" across the room in frustration.
It's not surprising that my ability to get there stopped... it's a miracle that it occurred in the first place. Realizing that I didn't know a goddamn thing about my lady-area's operations was the hard part. It's time to pull up my bootstraps, pull down my pants and get to work.
The Tools:
One (1) bottle multivitamins (per a friend's suggestion).
One (1) bottle special sex vitamins, featuring BIG, LURID PURPLE LETTERING and a picture of a woman with hair like Farrah Fawcett's after several hours of vigorous yanking.
One (1) book, "How To Come So Hard Your Eyeballs Roll All the Way Back in Your Skull and Your Optic Nerve Knits Itself Into a Sock".
Actually, the book is excellent, narrowly-focused, written by a Ph.D. in Clinical Explosive Orgasmology or some such. It's somewhat heavy on the positive self-worth exercises ("Stroke your inner thigh with a feather while repeating 'I AM FULLY ENTITLED TO ENJOY THIS PLEASURABLE SENSATION!'". However, I'm keeping an open mind; the pile of KY-stained recipes on my bookshelf shows the extent of MY subject-matter proficiency. I'll be reading the book cover-to-cover. I'll be doing the exercises, no matter how asinine. I'll be popping my vitamins. And I'll be taking you, dear reader, along for the ride.
I won't be posting every day (do you know how sticky the keyboard would get?), but fear not, there will be reports from the field. National Crotch Poking Time Period has begun. It oughta be an exciting time. Come, take my hand...
... on second thought, don't. But stay tuned.
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Klynn, at 11/15/2007 7:27 PM 
Oh, and my secret (*blush*) when the roller coaster just won't get over that first climb, is slipping a hand in edgewise to diddle while my partner is getting his stroke/thrust on. Now I'm going to go hide and thank G-d that most of your readers don't know my true identity.