pain anti-orgasm sexylittleideas
or Don’t. Stop.


I lie on a narrow sterile couch covered with a white sheet while two nurses hold me down and one therapist wrings the remaining life out of my bruised, swollen, post-operational feet. My spine arches almost to the point of snapping. My head is flung back and my lips spread open like jelly on white bread.

Adrenaline is swimming violently through my twitching veins. My heart is on fire and burning its way into my lungs.

My fingers clutch at the sheets like a naughty sibling tugging to expose a Halloween ghost. The staccato screams flee from my lips in a blind jungle of panic, grasping at vines of horror and ferns of terror in a tumble of sonic arms and legs on their way out.

From the waist up, it looks suspiciously like someone is getting a blowjob.

Intense pain is surprisingly like an intense orgasm.

It is the same powerless, helpless plight as when I am pinned down and forced to receive pleasure. My body has the same basic hand of reactions to good and evil both, give or take maybe a sharp note or two in its cries.

I shrink toward the pain and then away from it in an undulating, almost musical, rhythm.

I bite deep into the pillow, the blanket, my arm, or anything else that happens to be in the way.

I am a tangle of involuntarily contracting and releasing muscles that are prone to throwing me around like a tennis ball without my consent.

I am a spiderweb of delicate blue veins clawing through the surface of my skin.

During an anti-orgasm, all my nerve endings and receptor cells are blinded by the fire at ground zero; you could press a burning brand to my neck and I’d kiss your feet in gratitude for the distraction.

I lie in a helpless pile when they’re finished, thrown like car keys on a countertop, counting the cracks in the ceiling, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe.

I laugh.