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2 posts categorized "Orgasm"

September 01, 2008

Bored After 200 Orgasms Per Day

Sometimes, having too much of anything can lead to boredom. Orgasms included. The below quote came via The Daily Telegraph and News of the World. The articles discuss Sarah Carmen, a woman who is bored simply because the most ordinary thing can bring her to orgasm and having sex with people hasn't provided a panacea for her medical condition:

"Sometimes I have so much sex to try to calm myself down I get bored of it. And men I sleep with don't seem to make as much effort because I climax so easily."

Sarah's condition makes Meg Ryan's diner orgasm (When Harry Met Sally) look like a casual burp. The SSRI link is scary when I think about it because I'm now wondering what will happen when I stop the Zoloft at some point. I've been thinking about ending my relationship with the shrink for a few weeks now, and I'm researching the best way to cease SSRI's - not that I mind the Zoloft, but I can't be arsed returning to the shrink, and forking out cash for a useless appointment, just to receive a script and the last thing I'd need in my life was PSAS as a possible repercussion or side effect; how the hell would I explain that to my son? If Sarah experiences orgasms at the sound of hairdryers, how would I fare? Will a casual play on the Nintendo Wii result in a spontaneous orgasm? I can't imagine how Sarah's 200 orgasms a day provide peace of mind as they'd interfere with work, and just about every other task. If she reacts to loud noises, imagine what her days would be like when she walks on a busy city street. Imagine what would happen near a construction site?

PSAS (Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome) or Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder can be the bane of any one's existence. It may render orgasm monotonous, if experienced 200 or so times a day. I had no idea this condition existed until recently. According to the original article in News of the World, Sarah developed PSAS after being prescribed anti-depressants at the age of 19. Instead of the condition making her life a nightmare (bars and other loud venues tend to bring on the occasional orgasm), Sarah has taken it in her stride, but imagine if this was you? How would you negotiate work? I can imagine how my own workplace would react to the revelation; it kind of makes 'equal opportunity' legislation all the more interesting.

What is PSAS?
Apparently it is unrelated to any feelings or emotions of sexual desire, and relates more to a spontaneous arousal. It was first documented in 2001, and is unrelated to hypersexuality (the PC term for nymphomania) and even though orgasm may provide minor relief, the symptoms are known to return within hours. The causes vary, and the cessation of SSRI's has been linked to the condition. Non SSRI causes include sensory nerve irregularity or pelvic venous-arterial deformities.

If you're interested in reading more about it, you can purchase the PDF copy of the paper via this link here.

May 08, 2008

Writing Under the Influence

I don't like using the typical preamble, 'as a writer,' but I have read about many writers who have written under the influence of substances, and for those sorts of rituals to be considered arty or something. Me, I don't get it. If I slam down five shots of Scotch, I can't keep my eyes on a screen, let alone a page, so I don't get it, but I do write under the influence of tobacco. I'm a chimney, and I don't say that from pride. No, it's not a cool pastime, but it is what it is and I've quit so many times, to restart. I've given up giving myself a hard time - there are worse things in life. I'm not an alcoholic, and I don't do other recreational drugs, but when I write I sometimes have a cigarette perfectly balanced between my lips, and it has become an art form; smoke no longer gets in my eyes. I can type one hundred to two hundred words before it's time to ash the wretched fag, and I return to the next paragraph.

Most recently, or over the last few months, I have written under the influence of a foreign substance and as people who visit here can see, it has reduced my salaciousness to some degree. I sometimes have good salacious days, but most days I'm more topical in nature. This substance has no effect on my appreciation of erotic content. I've always been an avid reader, but my inner life (and my bodily reactions) have entered a different plane, which may come across as loony or slightly unhinged, but it is difficult to describe the phenomenon that accompanies selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors.

This week, I have thought of returning to work that sits on my computer, work that I haven't returned to since the new medication kicked in. This work is unfinished and unpublished. It was supposed to be completed, and I was supposed to read the first draft, in order to correct it, but lately I've been quizzing myself about it all, namely the content of the stories I've written and if they are viable. I've second guessed myself countless times because of one simple truth: the two stories on my laptop were written during a time of great duress, and lately, I have come to think that such phases don't provide a crash hot read.

To reveal the effect of SSRI's is to open up the door to concepts that may seem outlandish to most sexually active people, and sex writers. How this has affected my own erotica is a phenomenon of its own. The last time I completed an erotic story of my own was a few months ago, and I now experience days asking myself if it will ever come, and I don't specifically blame the medication, even though I don't begin or end my day counting my self made orgasms or my orgasmic motivation, I blame myself.

Most recently, I asked myself where does a person go sexually, after they have experienced all that they wish to experience? In my personal life, the idea of getting out there and being intimate with anyone is no longer a high priority. I tend to visualize standard gropes and sexual expectations (like choreographed foreplay and typified fellatio) and I sour at the prospect of immersing myself in that mating game.

I have done the blind date, casual date and Internet date. I have done the one night stand, relationship, short relationship and Internet booty call. What else is there to do? Where else can I go? And this doesn't have anything to do with writing per se, because there are countless stories that can be written, that are no problem, but I frequently ask myself if I have desensitized myself or whether it is a dual feedback situation, of society desensitizing people. Occasionally, I'll ask myself if I'm smack in the middle of an early mid-life crisis, and sometimes I'm comfortable with that (because if it's experienced early, it won't be experienced later – who has the energy for a second run?)

Most recently, after a short visit with a relative of mine, a conversation developed and it related to the death of a family member in 2007. We agreed on one thing – how it changed everyone on some level. Maybe it was the situation or event of the death and how it unfolded, at the most unexpected time. One thing is certain, the day altered us all in some way or form, and it was something that I didn't anticipate. I thought I was immune to death. After all, I have spent five years in nursing homes and hospitals, and I have spent almost three years majoring in human anatomy at university. Death and human bodies go hand in hand with those kinds of jobs and studies, but something did change. Perhaps my perception of my life, at that stage (and age) added more factors to my reaction and response. I can't be entirely sure, but when I returned home and reentered my workplace, I was a different person but those around me would pretend that nothing happened.

I remember the day my work woes erupted like an inflamed wisdom tooth. It was shortly after I felt I made some good calls, and achieved more than I did the year prior. I entered a new role, and I finally felt I had covered good ground. All in five months. Not bad, I thought, considering I had endured a personal death a few months prior. The sun shone for me, until other things arose, things that related to intra-office bitchiness, and then I came face to face to the early crisis once again. It returned like a long lost friend or a shit stained shoe, shaking my hand and welcoming me back into the sticky fold.

I'm amazed that I've had a few short stories published during that time. I remember returning to Sydney, shortly after the death in my family, and finding out I'd won a short story competition. Sure, I was rapped, but I thought it ironic. It took me some months, after that, to return to any form of erotic writing. I wrote. I just didn't want to write about affection, love, sex, intimacy or anything remotely personal on any sexual level.

Achievement, or the sense of achievement is a relative thing. When my work issues arose, I felt like I'd fallen into an abyss, and getting away from the abyss became difficult due to all the roadblocks that I partially created. I'd faithfully committed to a position, and glanced back to see that I had not accumulated any knowledge in a particular industry, to enable me to escape to another position. I cursed myself for entering yet another fucking day job in another industry, and felt disappointment in myself. I also wished I could punch my managers' lights out, but I had to contain that emotion, even though I felt justified in doing that to them. Sure, we're supposed to be sophisticated animals once we enter our adult years, but I can fondly recall my teenage years, or my elementary school years, and think back to brash moments that stood for something, or something much more than what political correctness and the emotional stiff upper lip do.

I think the bulk of my life experience has enabled me to foresee the breaking point. I have seen it in others, and I'd have to be extremely stupid if I couldn't see it for myself, and I did see it. It's strange how people do react to revelations of stress. I recall my recent eye examination for a new set of specs, and the optometrist asking me about any medication. When I replied with, 'Zoloft,' her tone changed. When I recently lodged a form at the local Social Security office, to validate my current job status ('I'm afraid it's still in limbo. I'm officially employed, but I'm on leave."), I had the best service in the world. When the officer apologized profusely and said I needed to lodge the correct medical certificate, he expected a rant or diva tantrum. Five months ago, and I would have exploded but I smiled and nodded. I did inwardly curse my doctor (I haven't had a lobotomy), but my blood pressure didn't rise. I made two trips that day, probably burning a few much needed calories off my Greek butt, but it all ended well and I didn't have to stress about any Social Security payments, even though my workplace is still 'sorting things out,' with bureaucratic vigor. The behavior of those aware of my situation has been interesting for me to observe.

I can't really say that I experienced a total nervous breakdown. I can say that I was on the way there. I just happened to bypass the nightmare before it took hold. Insomnia and anxiety, not to mention inverted anger, can do that to a person. They are the three warning signs, and all the writing in the world (or all the creative endeavors) sometimes fails to balance the stress, and even so, it may not be stress but the perception of non achievement: there I am, I thought, spending eight hours a day with people who'd rather sabotage other people, people who'll spend decades backstabbing other people, people who have orgasms over minor typos, and this is not who I am, and what the fuck have I done? There were many days when I wanted to regress into the teenager I once was, grab two higher ups by the scruff of their necks and give them a right royal shake up. Instead, I woke one morning and said, 'fuck them all, I can't go in anymore.' This arrived, after my realization that I'd only slept an hour, for the seventh consecutive night (or morning), and I couldn't keep on lying to myself, tell myself that I was busy writing. Yes I was writing, but I wasn't really writing for the art of writing. I was writing for the escapism, and that, to me, isn't really an ideal setting and it seldom rectifies other ills, as least for myself.

My first month on medication wasn't anything exciting. It wasn't as though I transformed into a zombie and spent my days in a drug-induced stupor. It was the total opposite. Clarity – after the previous eight or so months – arrived and could have been a strange visitor. Maybe I can liken it to a new lover or a strange houseguest. One thing is certain, getting reacquainted with it felt strange, and it still feels alien to me but I take it one day at a time. I am still a long way from returning to my writing routine, and this post isn’t what I’d classify as writing. I type at a 100 words per minute, all eight digits, thumbs on space bars.

There are days or evenings, such as this moment, when I sit down to write and I recall all the stories I need to go through with a fine tooth comb, and grab all the dead lice. Yes, I have to remove the bits I don't like. I have to amputate the influence of the stress of the last eight months, and I have to regroup and reorganize, and it does feel strange to be under the influence of what I am currently taking. Others get off their faces to lose themselves, and enter a world of smudged reality, meanwhile I'm taking something that is slowly piecing together the person I used to be, and the strange thing is that I'm willing to put my libido on the temporary back burner in order to get that person back.

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