Okay, so I don’t always listen to my vagina when she speaks.
Sometimes even, she has to yell to get my attention. Like the time a guy I was dating decided something he’d seen on a porn movie would work on my delicate lady parts—I called his technique the vacuum suction move, delivered with enough gusto to rival a Hoover or Electrolux. I finally gasped a please stop, but not before she had gone into numb shock.
Then there was the time a fellow persisted for eons, epochs even, attempting to bring My Fair Lady to climax when she was secretly whispering for me to give him specific instructions (faster, slower, higher. lower, softer, harder). Instead, I ignored her until finally a fake orgasm ended the ordeal.
Why is it so many women (I know I’m not alone) are embarrassed to relay our vagina-vulva-clit wisdom to our lovers, especially in the love-making moment when that information is so critically needed. Sure, we eventually get into a groove with a longterm partner in which reading each other’s bodies becomes a beautiful orchestration of subtle messages and body telepathy.
But until then, if we only get out of our chattering heads about what is okay or not to say to our lover, we can dive into what is already being said by our body. We only have to listen and speak it.
I admit listening to my vagina is sometimes like asking me to listen to opera—I resist. There are the times where she is messaging me to follow through with a sexual experience, that she is pleasure-loving it, but I shut her up. Maybe I’m at my edge, at a place of discomfort emotionally, or perhaps imagine I’m not in the mood.
Yet, she is clearly telling me to surrender.
Sometimes I agree. Other times, my mental mind-f**k is far too noisy. If the noise includes a to-do list, I know I’ve completely hung up the internal line of communication. By that point, my lady parts and I are in completely different rooms, if not continents.
And now, the edu-tainment. Enjoy this clever, funny and on-target Ads for Ideas production called Let Me Enjoy Myself.
Tell me, women, haven’t we all been there?
Originally printed in Elephant Journal.
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