Girl on the Net

I’ve never been a particular proponent of the idea that you have to come to enjoy sex, and if I’m truly honest I’d say the thing which matters most to me is that my partner comes. Which might seem horrifyingly subservient, until you realise that desire comes not from an old-fashioned desire to ‘satisfy’ him but because – not to put too fine a point on it – I like how it feels when he empties his balls into me.

Satisfaction without orgasm

The whole ‘satisfaction without orgasm’ thing struck me the other night, right at the end of a particularly excellent fuck. After a few minutes in my favourite sex position, lying on my stomach with my face squashed into the pillow, pushing back onto his cock so I could feel him smacking against my arse, I realised that what I was rooting for – the aim – wasn’t for me to come, but for him.

I wanted to feel the gush of spunk pumping out of his dick.

I’ve written before about the ‘O’ face – how everyone has a unique look at the moment of orgasm. It’s a stunningly beautiful thing, even though many of us get paranoid about whether our ‘O’ face makes us look like champions in a gurning match. But there’s another face I (and presumably others) pull too: the satisfaction face.

Very different to the orgasm face, which is an involuntary muscle-twitch when you climax. It’s not a ‘fake orgasm‘ face either – the satisfaction face is just an expression of pure pleasure when experiencing a particular sensation. I would probably pull my ‘O’ face when I came regardless of how much work I’d put in or whether I really deserved that orgasm. But satisfaction comes when there’s an itch which has been well and truly scratched, and I feel smugly like I put in at least some effort to get there.

I probably pull the same face just after I’ve bit into a particularly delicious cake that I baked myself. Or if an article I write gets retweeted by someone I’m fangirling over. I know I pull it when I’ve spent a while playing Cock Hero with him, and after he’s spent a good twenty minutes biting his lip and fighting his orgasm, finally he grunts and gives up, spilling buckets of spoodge into the end of a Fleshlight.

And I pulled it that night too. At the end of a vigorous, dirty fuck, I lifted my head and squeezed my cunt tight around him (the better to feel each throb of his dick as it squirted into me) and I knew I was pulling that face of extreme satisfaction.

That position is almost certainly my favourite because it maximises this feeling: I can get myself really tight around his cock, so I can sense his twitches more easily – pressing each atom of the slick inside of my cunt against the throbbing flesh of his dick. Or maybe because I just find sex more satisfying if we’re not face-to-face: it’s dirtier in my mind. It reminds me of that Bloodhound Gang song in which they do it like animals.

Satisfaction vs orgasm

I realise it’s not particularly liberated or sex-positive to point out that I could take or leave an orgasm (I have my Doxy, after all, so I can always finish myself off afterwards) but that I couldn’t take or leave this kind of satisfaction. To reiterate – it has less to do with his pleasure than it has to do with the very specific physical sensation of his twitching cock emptying jizz into me. His pleasure is a happy by product of a thing that feels sensational.

If you’ve been following closely, you’ll probably realise that I’ve had some problems lately with orgasm. To be blunt, I was on medication that made it almost impossible for me to come, and put up a bunch of other barriers that stopped me from enjoying sex. There came a point, after a while, when the panic about whether or not I’d come would prevent me from getting beyond the ‘OK let’s do this’ stage and into the ‘that feels fucking lovely’ arena.

Luckily for me, this satisfaction won out. It carried me from ‘can’t come’ through ‘doesn’t matter if I come’ and back round full circle to ‘OK maybe I can come now.’ Even if it does happen half an hour later, when he’s in the shower and I’m frigging myself crosseyed over the memory of what his spunk-dripping cock did earlier.

That very specific sensation – and the feeling of smug satisfaction at large quantities of spunk – got me out of my head, and back in the moment where I could be happy even if I didn’t come.

I’m just gutted that I was facing away, so he didn’t get to see my satisfaction face.