Edging & Why I Like To Wait (NSFW)

I’ve spent a lot of time at home over the last few months. In general, I’m pretty good at keeping myself entertained, in between bits and pieces of freelance work, and I’m lucky enough to be fairly solitary by nature – or rather, I’m what you might call an outgoing introvert, who needs regular ‘hits’ of human company, but is happy to exist for the most part in my own little bubble.

Nevertheless, passing entire days in the warm, calm silence of my apartment isn’t always easy. There are mornings where I feel almost paralysed by inertia, as if my brain has been boxed in and can’t form the thoughts necessary to navigate its way out. Other times it’s more the relentless grind of application forms and interview prep that makes me want to throw open the balcony doors and yell at the rooftops opposite.

It isn’t all bad, of course. I have a lovely flat, and on days when the sun shines I find myself stretched out on the sofa with a good book, or pottering around the kitchenette as music fills the room. I’ll often do that naked, taking advantage of the way heat gets trapped up here on the top floor; even when I’m clothed though, there will always come a point during the afternoon when I find my hands wandering over the front of my jeans, or slipping down inside them to find my cock.

That’s inevitable though, right? Anyone who works from home, or doesn’t work at all, will know how hard it is to avoid devoting more time to masturbation than to just about any other meaningful activity. As a guy, I think that’s especially true when you stop seeing it as goal-oriented, and learn to enjoy the process almost as much – or sometimes even more – than the outcome.

I’ve dipped my toe into more serious, medium/long-term orgasm denial at various points, and have always been interested in both the physical and the psychological impact of the active decision not to climax. For various reasons it’s not something I’m interested in doing again right now, but even with so much time on my hands at home I still find myself going days without an orgasm – largely because of how intensely, maddeningly pleasurable the associated edging can be.

Frustration is an integral part of that. Like everyone, I’ve gone through periods of depressed libido, where I haven’t wanted to come, and that’s no fun at all. There’s certainly nothing amiss with my libido at the moment though; despite the stress and uncertainty, my sex drive has been consistently high for months now, and that’s what ultimately makes edging so…well, so edgy.

I want to come. Sometimes I really, really fucking need to come. And when I reach that point – when my whole body is primed for it – edging feels like it’s laced with just the most exquisitely masochistic kind of pleasure. I’ll go from idly playing with my cock – squeezing it in my fist, or rubbing the pad of my thumb over the head – to giving it some more serious attention, and somewhere between the two my brain will make a decision. Yes or no. Tumble over the edge or teeter on the brink. When it’s the latter, I almost feel like I’m playing a cruel trick on my body; that it doesn’t yet realise that the rug is about to be pulled out from under its feet, so continues just to do what feels good, in preparation for the anticipated release.

Someone asked me recently whether edging feels good because of the frustration and the denial, or whether it’s all about the intensity of the eventual climax. I was thinking about that as I sat down to write this – actually, it’s probably why I sat down to write this – and for me at least, the answer is that the pleasure lies in both…and neither.

The submissive in me adores the feeling of wanting something but not being able to have it, especially if it’s guided edging, done either remotely or in person. “You can’t come till (4pm/tomorrow evening/next time I see you/after I’ve done so/etc etc)” is always one of the hottest things someone can say to me, and even when I’m just playing around with orgasm denial on my own, variations on that fantasy are always close enough to the front of my mind to make me tingle every time I touch myself.

And yes, the longer I wait before coming – the more times I get myself close, or even just tease my cock – the more toe-curlingly good it is when I finally do so. Leave it three, four, five days, till I’m clawing at the furniture and walking round with a permanent erection, and the results can be pretty spectacular.

However, there’s something more to it, I think. Forcing myself to endure that level of regular stimulation without orgasm has a wider impact on my physical sensitivity, and certainly on my overall levels of sexual arousal. I don’t know the science behind it, but I feel more attractive and energetic at that point; restless, sure – sometimes dangerously so – but in a really conscious way, like I’m permanently aware of my own body. It’s also when I’m most open to kink and experimentation; if you want to push my boundaries or try something new, getting me into bed when I haven’t come for a few days is by far the best way to do it.

As for those long, quiet days I’m spending at home right now, it doesn’t help that in-between the various bits of work and life admin, I find myself with no shortage of blogs, stories, and diverting daytime conversations to keep that arousal topped up and threatening to brim over. There are afternoons when I have to put my phone away, log out of Twitter, and generally shut out the wider world for a couple of hours, to avoid being overwhelmed by it all.

Not that I really mind when that does happen. As I said at the start of this piece, I don’t typically need human company in order to be happy, but I still love the feeling of connectedness which comes from sharing thoughts, ideas, fantasies, and I suppose just a part of my sexual self, with attractive, open, curious people – even (and sometimes especially) if they’re at the other end of a Whatsapp conversation or sliding into my DMs.

Those exchanges have taught me a lot about my own sexual interests, and they’ve also prompted some of the best writing I’ve done over the last couple of years; as much as I write for myself, I feel like my own creativity flows from – and is reinforced by – the interactions I have with people who read it. It’s a virtuous circle.

Edging and short-term orgasm denial give all of that an extra charge. They make me greedy for more of everything, and they’re often responsible for putting the ‘exhibit’ in Exhibit A. When I’m like this, I want to be touched and seen; talked to and played with, till I can’t take any more.

I reached that point late yesterday afternoon, sitting at my kitchen table. My skin was almost too sensitive to touch, and I had that tight knot of arousal deep in my stomach, which made it impossible to focus on anything else. With no lube to hand, I slicked saliva onto my fingers and popped open my jeans, freeing my cock. Using spit in that way feels oddly satisfying; it gives the whole thing a sort of rough, desperate urgency, especially when I’m already that worked-up.

With the sun streaming in through the balcony doors, I closed my eyes and tugged at my cock, listening to the shhhp-shhhp rhythm as my ribbed fingers squelched over the head. I felt my thighs tense once, twice, three times, and on each occasion relaxed my grip for just long enough to allow the air to escape my lungs and my spine to lose some of its stiffness.

After a while I grabbed my phone and snapped a couple of photos. It was a way of giving myself a break, but also of sharing that moment and the feelings it gave me. Writing about it today – albeit from a calmer, less fidgety place – serves that purpose too.