Girl on the Net

As I hope you can tell from the title of today’s post, this week’s guest blog contains some mild peril. Luckily, the fact that you’re reading it is evidence enough that the author of the piece is fine now, so please don’t worry. And naturally, once you’ve recovered from intense sex (or a hilarious sex accident), human instinct is to share that story with anyone who’ll appreciate it. So please welcome this week’s anonymous guest blogger, with a true story about an extremely powerful orgasm…

I came so hard I blacked out…

Showering with my partner is one of my life’s most simple, intimate pleasures. Until our shower sex ended with an orgasm so powerful it had me sitting on the bathroom floor, naked and dripping wet, trying not to pass out or throw up in the sink.

The French coined a term for orgasms: la petite mort, which in English means, ‘the little death’. I don’t think I ever really understood why this might be an apt description until last week.

Our shower started as normal. We got all the operational business out of the way first: working out a temperature compromise between his lukewarm and my lava preferences; playfighting over who gets to stand under the warm water at one time; yelping whenever a stray arm touched the cold glass or tile; washing each other’s backs and the parts we can’t reach ourselves; and slipping around when my conditioner ran down out of my hair and underneath our feet.

Once we were thoroughly clean, M took my face in both hands, leaning me back slightly so the water ran over my face and down my chest, and gave me a look that told me it was time for us to get well and truly dirty again.

He kissed me gently to start with, running his fingers through the wet tangle of my hair before dragging them slowly down my neck, then my chest, then my stomach, before turning me and pinning me up against the shower wall. The mixture of sensations was intoxicating. I was sandwiched between cold, hard, unyielding tile and something else warm and unyielding against my thigh, with hot water gently tapping the top of my head and trickling down my back, and hands roving across any square inch of me he could find.

We carried on in the same, slow, sensuous vein until M picked up the pace and threw all his efforts into giving me an orgasm for the books.

He had his mouth on my nipple, his fingers against my G Spot and his thumb on my clitoris. The holy trinity. Mix that delicious combination with urgent kisses, lip bites and his free hand pulling my hair, and you’re onto a winner. The kind of orgasm that makes your legs shake uncontrollably and then finally give way once you reach climax.

The secret ingredient, however, was the sporadic, teasing pauses he threw into the mix. M would stop and start with an unpredictable rhythm. He knew exactly when I was about to come, and move his focus elsewhere for a time. I couldn’t predict the length of these pauses either – some were mere seconds and others lasted for a minute or two. The effect was masterful, ramping up my arousal to almost unbearable heights.

As soon as I thought I had figured him out, he switched the game up on me. I whispered, as best as I could, that I was about to come, expecting another pause. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, growled permission in my ear and gripped me even closer to him. The orgasm was explosive.

I came so hard I remember sliding down the shower wall, legs completely useless at that point, held upright by M’s arms alone. Pure bliss, until I realised I couldn’t see or move.

Flirty and chipper, he propped me back up, turned off the water and stepped out while joking about how we should get dinner started. I didn’t follow him. My vision was still gone, I was dizzy and I could hear the blood rushing in my ears – that whomp whomp whomp that tells you something’s not quite right. M obviously realised the same, dropping his nonchalant joking immediately.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m going to pass out. No, really, I think I’m gonna black out.”

“Shit. Right, come here.”

Quickly wrapped in a towel and guided down to the stool in our bathroom (usually the domain of yesterday’s clothes thrown off before stepping into the shower), I sat there trying not to collapse. I was deathly pale, dripping wet and (had the towel not been there) naked as the day I was born.

My breathing became really strange too – inhaling was a mammoth effort, but exhaling happened in a quick rush. My muscles stopped working and I couldn’t hold myself upright properly, even sat down. M tried to feed me sips of cold water while stroking my soaking wet hair and tucking my towel around me while I flapped him away, trying to concentrate on not keeling over entirely. I felt really nauseous, and was nearly sick in the sink a few times until I was steered by M to my knees in front of the toilet.

Despite feeling awful and overwhelmed by the whole experience, the aftercare was brilliant – and we all know how important that is. I didn’t feel judged or panicked, just supported. Plus there’s the bragging rights of having had an orgasm so strong that it made me black out momentarily, and that’s something that both of us will hang our hats on for a while.

I slowly started to feel like myself again after about twenty minutes. M dried me off and deposited me in bed after the sickness had passed and my vision was nice and clear again. Still white as a sheet, but no longer in danger of losing consciousness, we finally started laughing about it.

Further hilarity ensued during a debrief with my girlfriends over our group chat later that evening:

“My boyfriend’s just asked if M can teach him everything he knows. But I don’t think my heart could take the strain if I’m honest. Don’t want to die or anything.”

“He should write a book.”

“Actually I think his secrets should stay with him in the interests of public health and safety.”

“Debating whether I should tell my therapist about this on Thursday?”

I have to say that incredible, faint-inducing orgasms would be nothing without having equally shameless friends to dissect them with.

It would be a blow to M’s ego if I blamed the experience on overheating rather than his digital skills, nor would I be giving the latter enough credit. I’m betting against the environmental factors and placing the blame firmly on M’s shoulders. A little advice for anyone else out there: date a musician. They know what they’re doing with their hands.

Either way, I’m both excited and a little nervous for the next shower. Wish me luck (and continued consciousness).

Note from GOTN: if you find yourself (or a partner) in a similar situation, here’s some advice from the NHS on fainting, and what to do to help someone.