Shelved for nearly two decades in the icebox, I recently made the bold escape to warmer climaxes. The cumulative build up of no build up wore heavy upon my psyche and other vital yet lay dormant parts. The starfish going through the motions of a sex life was not the life for me. I knew that what inflicted my system had to be treated, or wither I would. It seemed an epic epidemic of Twilight Zone horrors had hit nearly all in my coterie. Disconnected intimacy complaints splurged out even after the slightly pour of vino with practically everyone, male or female that I was in contact with, confessing sexual dissatisfaction of some sort. Short sheeted and bed raged, I needed to help myself before I could even think to lift another.
It must be me, not the others, that shared my bed, to blame. Of course, the Maker of me must have run out of magic fairy wanna fuck dust when my DNA buddle showed up to be transported to the womb. I thought I had missed the promised allocation sprinkle of Desire when we signed up for earth school. I will admit fantasy and masturbation did consume a chapter of early childhood after learning to read the Play Boy articles not so carefully slid under the leather couch in our Northern Virginian Rec room. Practicing the sex games the publication pandered, with the cul de sac kids, until we got caught, spanked and put to bed without supper for our naughty behavior. Game Over. I was told I was too bold.
I earnestly needed to know what was wrong with me decades later when this all mattered, much. Did I really miss out on the groove gene? Shame towed me under for a time. I was called frigid. Often. I wasn’t good at faking earth quaking orgasms. I parked blocks away from half a dozen sex specialists’ offices so no one would recognize my car (as if They would) to find out what affliction I suffered from so it could be remedied. I felt so marked, the last pick, the forgotten misfit on a mission that I could not share with a soul in my story. Countless blood tests, ultra sounds, potions, lotions, I tried it all so I could balm the alienation I felt deep within me. In desperate pursuit to fix my broken frigid self, I tried many routes to dead ends. I had not been extended an invitation to the Big O Club. I was left out in the cold.
When I was finally freed of my freezer burn life, I vowed to dive into self-discovery sex research, nearly full time. Like a virgin, touched for the very first time, I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through, didn’t know I was lost until I found (borrowed from the marvelous maven Madonna) myself a tantric lover who decided I was his project. I took up lyrical jazz and ballet to help melt the ice. Sensual movement even as a beginner vertical on the dance floor and horizontal on the bed boards opened up a magnificent new rhythm to life. With my first dose of sexual confidence and swagger, I finally found pleasure to the Nth degree. Hallelujah there is a God and angels and magic fairy dust. The student finally became the teacher after a year invested practicing, studying and talking sex. Taking this towed under passion as a sign for a sincere calling, I dove in deeper to the mystery of blossoming me. I hired a dance tutor. I hired sex mentors.
A brilliant Dr. friend of mine, Elizabeth, shared that her practice was skilled at G spot enhancing (http://vanderveercenter.com/#body), after I had confided my great sex campaign mission. It is amazing the gifts one receives when we tell our truth, share our shame and ask for help. I was an ideal, game candidate for the flower fluffing (G-Spot) procedure.
I gleefully eased onto my back with feet secured into sheepskin stirrups, my moxie filled soul thrilled at what lay ahead. The Dr. talked me through the procedure then carefully took gloved steady hand and injected Derma filler (1-2 cc’s) into my Grafenberg Spot. I didn’t know if I actually owned one of those elusive and much talked about G spots, an extension of the clitoris. I most certainly did. My flower fluffed up with the syringe donations in a few moments and provided the training wheels that soon sent me on the path to the deepest pleasures imaginable. Plumped up with extraordinary nerve sensations, I sashayed out, filled to the brim with self-assurance that stemmed from my blooming G. Highly sensitive, my flower felt warm with desire and arousal. Lust and want for skinship overwhelmed me, not in a gotta get off manner, but in a can not wait to get to my lover manner. The pleasure of touch is keenly, intensely enhanced. This procedure along with my research of me pursuit and game mates unleashed more of my torr-id possibility.
What I know to be true, is this I learned from life coaching. We must get very clear on what we want, (in this case I wanted out of the frigid cold) then we must make a plan of action (for me research and experience and asking for help), commit to the plan (be game and have the courage to be uncomfortable to grow), do the plan with adjustments along the way (work the program every single day) and celebrate when we reach our dream (climax). This is the path to a lifted life.