Stop fucking fuckboys and put your fingers in your pussy

enter the portal to eternity | eros drip pt. 1

via cosmos.so

Put aside the vibrators, dildos, lube, and other accoutrements for a moment and imagine breathing yourself so deep, so wide, so open, you forget what time is.

You forget the best fuck you ever had. And that dude who keeps texting you “wyd” at 1 am.

You forget trying to match your last orgasm, no matter how earth shattering, because the bliss of right now, right here, your body, your breath, your fingers exploring, is all you want. All you need. All you know.

Imagine your fingers are pure magic. Vibrating stardust designed specifically for your body. Created with such precision they draw you into ecstasy with a single touch.

Imagine a world in which you don’t need a man, a toy, or even a fantasy to bring you into endless waves of bliss.

Let me be clear, I’m not discounting men or toys or fantasies in the erotic journey.

I am saying they can become crutches that disconnect you from the source of your pleasure (your connection to yourself) rather than create the intimacy necessary for a sense of fulfillment.

Which, if you’re reading this, I’m guessing you might want. Yearn for, even.

Have you ever fucked someone and felt more disconnected after? I know I have.

It’s kinda paradoxical… yet not.

Disconnection happens when we rely too much on external stimulation, validation, reinforcement, believing that, out there, is what turns us on, gets us off, and more fundamentally, makes us worthy of experiencing joy and pleasure to begin with.

Disconnection happens when we cling to the idea of orgasm to seduce us into our bodies, believing our pleasure, our desire, our needs are only worth our attention if there’s some wild explosive peak at the end (thanks fucked up cultural narrative).

Or when we fall into performance at the drop of our panties, repeating the same few reliable, yet relatively unsatisfying tricks we’ve been practicing for who knows how long.

Or when we imagine what it would be like to fuck that guy again, with his perfect cock. Ugh we’d just die for him to be thrusting us open… if only he wasn’t such an asshole. Might as well text him anyway - where else can I get fucked that way?

Listen. I’m a big fan of a perfect cock thrusting me open…

But what about letting yourself in, intimately, deeply, with no expectations.

What about the slow, sweet subtlety of soft fingers on naked skin?

What about a swath of time with nothing to do but be here, swimming in it?

What about permission to let go of the ending, of extracting something from the experience?

What if the end didn’t matter?

What if it was all about being in the moment, just you, your fingers, and the way you’re breathing?

Consider your fingers for a moment. The delicate details, the textures and lines of your skin, your bones protruding in that certain way, the millions of nerve endings, the way you can articulate each individual tendril of your hand.

Now think about your fingers communicating with your own pussy. About how intricate, how precise your movement can be. How your fingers can articulate what words could never say and what a cock could never do.

Imagine wandering through the dark, wet crevices of self and exploring, really, what it’s like to press just a millimeter further. And another… and another. To increase the pressure just the way you want it. To linger and linger and linger until you’re actually ready for more.

Imagine allowing a whisper of sensation to grow and grow and grow without the pressure of a too eager cock rushing you to the finish.

Admit it. Sometimes you want to scream at the man who’s fucking you to SLOW DOWN… but you don’t. Maybe because you don’t slow down with yourself and it doesn’t occur to you. Or perhaps you think you’re asking too much (you’re not).. Or you worry about “ruining the moment.”

Or maybe, you just want it to be over with because let’s face it, this guy is no fuckmaster - he’s a fuckboy. He’s dropped you, his mind is already in the future… he’s just trying to get off. And you let him. But it’s not really what you want. It’s not how you would treat yourself, as your own best lover.

I get it though. The mad rush is often a fixture of life. Pleasure feels fleeting. Reaching that high is a fixation laced with urgency. And it’s so practiced we don’t even consider there’s another way to go about it.

I say none of this to cast shame or judgement.

Rather, I want to help you see that your concept of “pleasure,” which is more accurately replaced with eros, has been compromised.

The erotic is not a concept. Not any specific peak or sensation or way of looking or even feeling. It is presence with whatever is. That age old practice of non-resistance. Eros is love’s openness. Destinationless, timeless, ever-present, humming within each breath.

And if there’s no destination — no mountain to climb — the pressure of time dissolves. You can wade in the rolling ocean. Even if you only have five minutes.

Your fingers, your pussy, your breath, your body… they don’t know time. They live in the eternal now. And they’d like to experience it, thank you very much.

What I can tell you is that eros expands, I mean literally expands, when you are in the center of experience. A heartbeat ripples through eternity. A subtle caress becomes a wild awakening. Everything is surprising when you’re really here. Really now. Fingers immersed in the cosmic mystery between your legs. Hips writhing. Spine in waves and waves and waves. Breath pulsing, deepening, opening. You are so here you forget who “you” are. Love fills you, fills you, with ecstasy.

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