I lost my virginity at age 17, but it was another 3 years before I went spelunking. During those 3 years I slept with several boyfriends, but I was lucky if I had even a fledgling little orgasm.
I never felt compelled to solve my own mysteries until I found myself in a prolonged dry spell. I was living and working on a remote dude ranch in the Rockies and there were just two groups of people that I had contact with. First, my fellow employees, whom I considered off limits. We were a small, tight-knit staff and not only did we work together, but we lived together 24/7. I had witnessed the drama of several ill-begotten liasons and vowed not to make that mistake myself.
The other group consisted of the ranch guests, a group of 30-40 couples and families that arrived on a strict weekly rotation. There were seldom, if ever, any singles in the roster. I don’t recall ever feeling the slightest attraction to any of the guests.
You might think that on a dude ranch there would be some prime cowboy meat available for a casual romp, and you’d be partially right in that they were certainly available. Each season they never failed to score with a cutie from either coast, charming them with their tight jeans and jingling spurs. And those belt buckles! I, however, was not so easily impressed. For one thing, I was one of them – a wrangler – and I could handle a horse as good or better than any of them. But the biggest reason I never got frisky with a cowboy was on account of their rodeo-sized ego. I really can’t stomach arrogant macho types in general, and I’d be damned if I was going to be just another notch in anyone’s belt buckle.
Wrangling was the most fun and interesting job I’ve ever had and I absolutely loved it. But I wasn’t getting any horizontal action and for the first time in my life I was desperately horny. What’s a girl to do?
I lived in a bunkhouse with 7 other girls, so privacy was scarce. But some nights I would lie awake, my body restless, my imagination lusty. Eventually I could no longer help myself, and I stealthily slipped my hand under my panties. I earnestly fiddled and prodded and soon I was getting warmer. My breath would quicken and I’d stifle a moan, but I would stop abruptly if I heard anyone stir even a little. I was terrified of discovery and painfully frustrated.
It became my naughty little nocturnal ritual and in time I grew bolder. Finally, after weeks of pearl fishing I brought myself to a tense orgasm, teeth clenched and breath held. It was exquisitely tortuous. I became addicted.
Paddling the pink canoe was a little easier during the winter season because our staff thinned out considerably and there were fewer girls in the bunkhouse. I even had the place to myself for a while in the off-season and that’s when I perfected my technique. Toys were obviously out of the question in the bunkhouse, but I made do very well with my nimble fingers. I learned to stroke my g-spot with my two middle fingers hooked inside my pussy while I rubbed my clit with the heel of my palm. Mmmmm.
It’s a good thing I had that opportunity to come into my own or who knows how much longer it would have taken me to learn how to orgasm. As it were, I would spend the next few years lamenting the fact that the orgasms I had with partners were never as good as the ones I gave myself.
Now I’m happy to say the evolution of my orgasm is still in progress. Just when I think that surely I must have peaked, they keep getting bigger and better. I’m very thankful that I have a partner who thrives on making me come:)
Did you know that May is Masturbation Month? It’s great to have an excuse to pay homage to the fabulous art of self-love!