Sometimes I Am The Carriage

when your room trembles when a carriage goes past. I however am sitting in the carriage, and often I am the carriage itself.
Friedrich Nietzsche

Orgasms are great. Through my life I’ve had thousands of them and am well aquatinted with the smorgasbord of different strengths, sensations, after effects available to the male anatomy.

Sometimes if drained or hurried they can be barely enough to break one’s stride, others can be enough to leave me non-verbal and mumbly. I remember the fantastic discovery in my twenties that, for myself at least, who I’m with can have vastly more impact on how an orgasm feels than the precise mechanics used to reach it.

I am also giddily aware that there is a whole world of undiscovered orgasms still out there (indeed, one film at the Berlin porn festival opened my eyes to an entire category of male orgasm that I hadn’t thought possible). I’ve yet to climax from prostate stimulation alone, nor recreated some people’s experiences of ejaculating through sheer power of thought. But it’s still possible for even a common or garden wank to turn into something… singular.

It had turned into a rather fun morning. I shan’t go into details but basically I ended up having three near-simultaneous rather hot text discussions (I am genuinely not trying to brag, I’m clearly just shit at scheduling things). When these wrapped up I settled down to let off a little tension.

It wasn’t a particularly dramatic wank, sort of the masturbatory equivalent of missionary, comfortable, familiar and unadventurous. The benefit of sexting is that I also had a fantastic bit of hyper tailored smut to read too.

All was normal until I approached the climax. It hadn’t taken long before I felt the familiar tightening and that bolt of liquid fire that seems to run suddenly from my arse to the tip of my cock. There was something almost like a rumbling, a feeling that something bigger was happening, that I’d loosed something and was now just a passenger. It came fast, hot, wet and plentiful. I was startled not so much by the sheer volume but more the sensation that pleasure had been shoved onto the back burner. Yes it was powerfully pleasurable, but more than that it felt like my body was taking care of something important, and to hell if it left me feeling sore afterwards.

I hadn’t wanked as frequently as usual in the last week and that might go some way to explaining why it was so… voluminous? But I’m sure other factors were at play, the two hours of exciting conversation, it being a Saturday morning free from the stresses of the week. It’s the kind of thing that would take a lifetime of careful observation to understand.

For Science?