In July I ended my ten-month dry spell. It wasn’t with that guy who said he was going to help me find a job when I moved to Brooklyn in May. Or with either of those other dudes claiming the same who only text me after I post new titpics on Instagram. It wasn’t the seemingly shy man who spent the whole date talking about himself without ever making eye contact only to disappear after his unsolicited plan to hook me up with employment ended in a hostile text exchange with an unfriendly fake friend. It wasn’t even with that Actually Shy bartender whose kind eyes I had been staring down at Hi Hello Diner every Friday night while I quietly ate my Steak Bavette and stubbornly nursed my two hand-poured Diet Cokes until I got up the courage to make a move only to be promptly shot down unaware that he had likely read the new essay forecasting this very interaction. No. No one from the usual barrage of Bushwick Dicks has made it into my apartment just yet. In fact, even though for those several sessions in July I felt more satisfied, attended to, more worn the fuck out than I had in years much to my neighbor’s peaked curiosity - I couldn’t quite declare just who was responsible. Left dizzy in an erotic haze with no evidence to the contrary I had come to believe that for a week last summer I was fucking a Ghost.
Sexual self-pleasure is contained by no bounds. Who knows what will turn us on next or get us off better, who could even imagine what used to do the job. I masturbated for the first time as a 9-year-old girl watching Little Shop of Horrors and humping a giant stuffed dog I named Chiffon. Poor Chiffon received many the unwanted advance for years to come until I learned how to touch myself manually and like a growing teenager discovered the clitoris in all its delicate glory. Once you find the magic button there’s not much need for penetration though I do recall one desperate evening pulling the handle off an Ab Roller to use as a makeshift dildo while I reminisced about fucking my boyfriend. Sure the ribbed texture did serve as a nice surprise but I didn’t care much to play with toys until I moved out of my parents’ house and had enough privacy to know my space wouldn’t be invaded, motorized rubber dicks discovered, displayed prominently on a chair next to my bed the way my mother did my big glass bong the year she found that, never to say a word otherwise. I didn’t need the passive shaming. So it was an exciting day when my first vibrator arrived in the mail all the way from Babeland to my new studio apartment in St. Paul. A lot to handle at first I eventually got used to the monstrosity that was The Rabbit for my 19-year-old body. Really though when it comes to getting myself off it’s not about that big rubber dick or even the complex toy, I’m perfectly content with a little Bullet straight to the clit for a few minutes and Bam. Full release. Job well done. Now I can get some seep. I don’t care much about the journey. In fact I’m pretty bad at fantasizing generally. I tend to separate my climax from partner sex and instead use it as a physical exercise to relieve tension and end the day peacefully. Of course there are times it’s nice to bring in the memory of a man I’ve slept with but sadly I’m so lacking in imagination that I just replay an image or movement from a recent session over and over in my head until I’m done. It’s always fun to choke myself to cut off oxygen or pinch my own nipples until it feels intolerable but body manipulation during self gratification is less about a playing a narrative and has more to do with stimulating my nerves. In that regard aside from that one woman who held the door for me at a coffee shop last spring after which I had sex dreams and directed orgasms for a month, I’m unable to fantasize about those I’ve never experienced. Even porn can only occasionally do the job and by now I have only a few go-to videos that I've come to know almost as intimately as the select men that I fantasize about. Though this all may seem very limiting, maybe even cold or shut off, the fact is that I can't get turned on unless I feel connected to the other person. Even choosing a partner for a one-night stand comes down to finding the way we interlock. Nothing is arbitrary. No one is unimportant. You hear that, boys? You’re all special, every single one of you!
It had been a long time since I’ve met anyone particularly worthy of anything more than a get to know you drink though. As promised in Relationship Goals I vowed to get off more this year and with the purchase of a new Palm Power Massager that changed my masturbatory life and brought me back to those ever elusive secondary orgasms that melt the entire body and leave me limp I must say I’ve gladly kept to it. And while men may have been coming up short it wasn’t for lack of trying. Truth be told I’ve been holding onto one in particular that never had a chance to come up at all. Leaving him in Chicago was my choice and the best one at that, but being physically apart from a person doesn’t guarantee his absence. Over my first couple months of contemplation, writing, eye-opening and retrospective observations, I may have felt his presence more than ever before.
During the third week of July it happened. It was early, 6AM. I sat at my table with the usual black coffee and yogurt, local news humming in the background while I typed mindlessly attempting to warm up for the day. Things seemed to be going along smoothly until I felt it - the weight. First it was on my shoulders and then atop my head. It tugged at my eyelids and pressed on my back. My arms dropped as if being pulled to the ground. What was this tether now drawing me back to bed? I couldn’t function anymore, my fingers froze, my vision was blurred, follow the lead and go lie down for fuck’s sake. Slumped over the pillow breathing deeply eyes shut a little confused I attempted to plan the rest of my day now trapped in a moment of calm. But as my mind worked to find work I felt him approach. What’s tickling me? Were those whiskers? Was that his beard on my neck? Did I feel human hair just now he’s not here is he? I didn’t open my eyes afraid the feeling would go away I must say it echoed elsewhere and wasn’t all that bad. Soon the face that grazed my neck and shoulders moved down to my breasts briefly, then along my stomach and down further yet until I felt a man, beard and all, performing oral sex while I laid alone in my own bed eyes clamped closed still terrified to find out that no one was actually there. My whole body gushed and heaved and I gasped at the virtual sensation of a man pleasing me as viscerally as if his very own mouth were making contact. Breathless and stunned I then looked up at my hands that had been above my head the entire time. Who was touching me? I touched myself. Who made me cum?
After journaling appropriately and then going back to work - writing a bit, sewing a bit, job searching enough, I had a normal evening a regular sleep and proceeded with the next morning ritual bright and early as usual. Then mid coffee yogurt and wakeup typing just as the day before I felt it again. The Weight. Still a little dumbfounded by the dizziness I stumbled back to bed acknowledging nothing but exhaustion. I laid thoughtless in silence ready for sleep only to immediately feel my visitor upon me. He started at my shoulder again, softly, tenderly, so realistic it sent an actual chill throughout my body standing hairs on end. I could sense the moisture on his lips while he kissed my nipples, thighs and hips. Laid sprawled on my back, hands in the air I dared not move again for fear this apparition would disappear at the slightest change in atmosphere. Not able to control my own subtle writhing I then felt his touch move in closer until. What’s this? What the fuck. Is that a dick?? Am I… are we fucking? I couldn’t help it I was panting, moaning, curling my back with the feeling of deep penetration that I could have sworn was physically inside me this must be real how is there not a real live man here right at this very moment it has to be oh my fucking… Oh. A real orgasm. Hands still grasping the bedposts I shook my head and let out a nervous giggle. It was the best sex I’ve had in ages. With a man I’ve never even touched.
Well this went on for the rest of the week. Every morning like clockwork, sometimes multiple sessions a day. I had no control over it, my body would shut down without warning and I’d have no option but to retire to the bed and welcome in my invisible lover, let him have his way, feel nothing but the warm buzz of satisfaction afterwards. The curious thing about Ghostfucking was that I always had to follow his lead. Any time I’d try to direct the fantasy I’d lose sensation of him all together. No, no move that way I want more attention on my tits. Hey, where’d you go?? Nothing? A minute of a blank mind later and he’d return to the path he was taking towards ass play or back kissing, shoulder caressing maybe a little head. I didn’t mind. It all felt great. In fact I never knew I was that into anal so thanks, guy, new worlds. It was like I'd acquired a brand new sexual partner, the giver I’d always imagined, sensuality and intimacy I never had. Who needs these lying posturing fake shy fronting douchebags I keep meeting in my new city. I’ve got everything I need, and I don’t even need him.
Needless to say my love affair with a ghost did come to an end. A tangibly real man entered the picture. It was an easy lay. He set it up. I didn’t feel much for him but having once before been on my radar I knew what I was going to get sexually. He exceeded my expectations by being every single thing you can ask for in a true Dom. While completely overpowering me with rough sex acts he maintains his respect for women, he observes my power, he does nothing that I don’t want to do, it’s all for my pleasure, not his aggression, and he’s fully aware of all of this. He was sweet and normal and polite afterwards. It should have been the perfect fuck. Eh. It was alright. While it did put a stop to what might be described as a week long of physical sexual hallucinations it only confirmed that I really am unable to become genuinely aroused unless I am connected to the other person. How strange that a man performing every move I describe in my playbook can’t bring me nearly as much pleasure as simply imagining a round with someone I truly adore. Have I crossed a new barrier in partner sex? Does this mean I can move from connections that are based only on mutual damage to those born of mutual love? Can I finally bring orgasms into the bedroom? Oh my god, hey all you whiney ex-boyfriends - I think I’m now Emotionally Available!
One could argue Hey Lady you hadn’t fucked in 10 months wasn’t your body just so desperate for the dick it went off feeling one all on its own?? Valid point. Though I’ve gone longer without sex and not by despair, if I spent two years solo in St. Paul with just a clunky old Rabbit imagine what that Palm Power could get me through these days. So if there was any deep desire that had to manifest in hands-free masturbation I would argue that it was specific to my ghost. The pleasure he offered that had nothing to do with my sexual repertoire may have been cast from subtleties I picked up on during our time together while we both denied the attraction that filled the room. We were pretty great at seeing everything else about each other, maybe extra careful to block out all undisclosed vibes. Perhaps I stored all of this information until it finally burst open in one big wet warm orgasm eight times over in July until finally some very nice Real Dom fucked a little sense into me and I remembered I live in New York now far away from Chicago and my past life and old friends and lovers and ex boyfriends and ex drama and since I moved I haven’t been able to connect with a new man or woman, haven’t been able to find great conversation or mind blowing sex, haven’t been able to find much in anyone.
Perhaps since I moved here all I’ve ever been is Haunted.