I came across this little gem several years ago while surfing the web (for what? I do not recall), and I was completely engrossed by it, and saved it. I have no idea who wrote it, so if it's yours, please email me and I can give you credit for this wonderful piece of work! It is TRULY amazing!
This is a MUST READ for any man, and woman, who is interested in anything sexual.
So read on! Yes, I know it's long, but don't be daunted! It's well worth the time and effort, TRUST ME!
Any young man who's serious about becoming a fuckmaster must early in the game confront a demoralizing truth about the difference between the male and female orgasms. If there were no other evidence that our Holy Mother, the Creatrix of All There Is, is by instinct a trickster, this fact alone would suffice for proof: The majority of human males who've ever lived on this planet have been prone to ejaculate within two minutes of the time they insert their jade stalk into the silk furrow. To not perform this stupid abracadbra, in fact, typically requires diligent practice.
For those dudes who perfect the art of not splurging so fast, however, there is an even more Olympian challenge: gaining control of the splurge, so that it happens only when consciously willed. The men who reach this winner's circle are truly an elite group.
On the other hand, an overwhelming proportion of all the human females who've ever trod the earth cannot under even the most favorable ambiance ascend to the state of orgasmic grace in less than 15 minutes. Half an hour is not unusual, and I've known ripe and fully emancipated women who rarely need less than 45 minutes.
It's true that some men, especially those that have only recently started growing a beard, can reload in a short time. A ten-minute wait between erections should not, theoretically, be an insurmountable obstacle to picking up where you left off. From my private polls, however, I conclude that even though many 19-year-old studs can get it up again after a relatively brief waiting period, few are actually still in a mood sexy enough to press on with the same attentiveness that led up to the first engagement. And of those, only a tiny percentage have the expertise or the inclination, while marking time till resurrection, to attend to the female pleasure zones with the non-genital parts of their bodies.
Which leads to the next cruel joke: A majority of women can't even achieve the flutter-magic through the unsupplemented in-and-out anyway: In most positions, the sliding action of the diamond pumper barely misses the clitoris, heart-source of female pleasure. (Not that most men even realize this. At this late date a significant minority have at least discovered the existence of the clitoris, but few have figured out how to address it in its native language.)
This is not to say that the female masses would, if forced to make the choice, opt for pure clitoral stimulation over vulgar copulation. Lots of them do relish the evolutionarily-necessary penis-vagina friction; they'd just like it a whole lot better if their total bliss was addressed, not just one facet. On the whole, I'm inclined to believe that the pool of male fuckmasters -- those who can consciously decree the moment of ejaculation and who understand the intricacies of the female orgasm -- barely exceeds the number of those who garner the Nobel Prize each year.
Condoms and anesthetics, I decided, were not ultimately part of the game plan that would make me a fuckmaster. Painstakingly, I began to accumulate a more natural bag of tricks. The earliest technique, which I acquired by blind instinct, was crude. I'd struggle to divert my attention away from the pleasure at hand by fantasizing about baseball games. I found I could deaden a measure of the supernal bliss driving me towards climax by seeing in my inner eye, for instance, the events leading up to Philadelphia Phillies' third baseman Mike Schmidt smacking a grand slam home run to beat the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 13th inning. In some love-making sessions, I narrated an entire ball game in my mind.
A second aid, also discovered early in my quest, was to inflict pain elsewhere on my body. Slapping my thighs worked well in distracting myself from the overabundant joy buzzing in my genitals, as did pinching and twisting my belly or digging my fingernails into my face. A more professional approach came to me via the Marriage and Sex Manual I found in a used book store. A man who was on the verge of splurging was advised to squeeze the base of his jade stalk or apply firm pressure to the perineum. The first action would mechanically suppress the ejaculatory urge. The second would blockade the spasmodic flow of semen from scrotum to penis.
These last two strategies were repugnant. I didn't want to rely on last-ditch interventions that required emergency brute force. I wanted poised power. I longed to wield command over my inconvenient biological programming every step of the way.
Eventually I discovered there were ancient traditions that had exhaustively explored the art of sexuality, including the problem of ejaculatory control. In India and Nepal and Tibet, these teachings are grouped under a branch of yoga known as tantra. In China and Japan, certain schools of Taoism dealt extensively with the same subjects
Unfortunately, much of this information was so bound up with the esoteric spirituality and hoary terminology of its respective traditions that they were only marginally useful to a horny dude who wasn't willing to immerse himself in a five-year plan to master the discipline.
By the late 1970s and early 1980s, a smattering of American authors began packaging the venerable secrets in modern vernacular. Even then, though, many of the techniques were elusive and subtle to the point of being useless.
Try imagining, for instance, a stream of golden light percolating from your perineum up your spine, then through your brain and back down the front of your body to the perineum again. While breathing rhythmically through your nose and from your lower abdomen only, counting to eight for each inhale and exhale, circulate the light continuously until it achieves a momentum of its own and drones on autonomously in the background of your awareness. In the meantime, gnash your teeth gently and touch a point one inch above your right nipple with your left index finger and middle finger, all the while opening your eyes as wide as they'll go and jamming your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "These actions will definitely cause the semen to be retained," the text asserts.
Oh yeah? Maybe when you're sitting alone and relaxed in your temperature-controlled room with a sleep mask over your eyes. But try the same meditation while you're sweat-to-sweat with a gorgeous aromatic creature who thrills every cell in your body. The difficulty of the task increases exponentially, at least during the first decade of trying to master it.
Which is not to say it's impossible. And besides, if you can be sufficiently candid with the gorgeous aromatic creature (and why would you be making love with a woman you can't be honest with?), you might enlist her aggressive cooperation in your attempts to distribute your kundalini to your whole body rather than have it congregate in one bloated, ready-to-pop area of congestion. You can ask her to not wiggle so seductively. You can beg her not to kiss you with so much exultant abandon. You can plead with her not to emanate so many tangy succulent smells and not utter so many of those bewitching groans that make you want to gush your entire soul into her.
But on the other hand, what lover in his righteous heart wants to ask that of the gorgeous aromatic creature with whom he's entwined?
I stumbled along with my conglomeration of baseball visualizations, self-mortifications, and tantric mumbo-jumbo. I was a good enough lover, usually a long-lasting lover, but not a fuckmaster. Wasn't there a philosopher's stone, I whined to myself. Wasn't there a technique that could provide consistent and ultimate control? Or would I forever have to make do with my gerry-rigged system?
*****At last, hallelujah, in a New Age Santa Cruz bookstore I found the treasure: a dusty hand-bound book titled Sexx Magixx . The obviously pseudonymous author was Jack N. Off, and I couldn't have been more surprised by his precious secret. Whenever you urinate, he said, practice interrupting the flow in midstream. The muscles by which you accomplish this unnatural act are the same muscles engaged in ejaculation. By gaining control over this mechanism, you can forcibly restrain the semen from gushing out even after the ejaculatory spasm has begun. If necessary you can do this again and again in any single love-making session, thereby staying hard as long as you desire.******
I gleefully threw myself into the exercise, and with surprising quickness I mostly conquered the previously involuntary reflex of ejaculation. It wasn't 100 percent foolproof, and I still made use of my old standby methods. But I was quite pleased with my new technique; I felt as if a Golden Age had begun. Nine times out of 10 I came only when I willed it, only when I was sure my woman had had her fill. Now and then my ardent efforts at retention were less than entirely successful, but nonetheless yielded salubrious results. The mini-eruptions relieved a small amount of the pressure to spill without bringing an utter end to the hard-on.
??????With the arrival of this magic in my life, I was finally able to confront a mystery I had doggedly turned away from. All the tantric and Taoist texts agreed, though I skeptically resisted it, that a man's sexual experience was far better in every way if he did not ejaculate at all, even after his partner has been satisfied. This assertion was based in part on the fact (not a theory, they said) that a regular loss of semen is detrimental to male vitality and health. It also assumed that sex yields up much more of its life-transforming magic if the erotic energy is "steamed up" to the heart and brain rather than wastefully ejected. There, in the higher chakras, lust is liberated from its enslavement to the reproductive instinct. It transforms into a supercharged nourishment that feeds one's aspirations to unite with God and experience tender spiritual love. ?????? I was willing to entertain the latter notion. Erotic play had always put me in a psychedelic state, and I longed to harness its transcendent energy to accomplish something beyond merely feeling good. Unfortunately, I could not help but hedge my bets. I convinced myself I could somehow both steam the sex energy up up up and also indulge in a good old-fashioned ejaculation.
The real tantrics would have laughed at me.
I did not even go through the motions of trying to accept the other rationale for not coming, though -- that losing your seed made you weak. I felt it had too much in common with the old husband's tale that women use sex to steal men's energy. It seemed patriarchal and misogynist. Steadfastly, like a scientist obsessed with proving a bogus hypothesis, I ignored and repressed all data that contradicted my fixation.
There was yet another good reason the tantric and Taoist texts gave for phasing out the old habit entirely. Several books hinted at the shocking secret, but Mantak Chia and Michael Winn spelled it out at length in their 1984 book Taoist Secrets of Love: Cultivating Male Sexual Energy. Ejaculation and orgasm are not the same thing, they asserted. In fact, the two functions can and should be separated. Why? Because the orgasm that's affixed to ejaculation is a mediocre form of pleasure. It's limited to a few intense seconds which exhaust the capacity for further delight.
!!!!!!!!There is a higher orgasm that is available only after the drive for ejaculation has been renounced. It's just as vivid as the first kind, often more so, but lasts longer and can be repeated indefinitely -- sort of like a woman's. "How would you like to be in a continual state of climax for an hour?" they hinted. More than that, this higher orgasm alone creates the conditions necessary to steam the semen up to the heart and brain!!!!!!!!
What if men are not alone responsible, I mused as I jubilantly dipped into her, for evolution's conspiracy to trick them into delivering DNA's payload in two minutes flat? What if women play at least a teensy role in perpetuating the bad habit which is the number one most-likely-factor to undermine mutually gratifying heterosexual sex? And what if there is a rare breed of females who can somehow turned off the part of her programming that contributes to that bad habit?
In those days, this was a taboo thought to haul before the frowning radical feminist ruling my superego, but now I can assert it guiltlessly: that some women on some occasions -- perhaps only in their unconscious minds (which, as any cognitive psychologist will tell you, is where 95 percent of the brain's activities take place) -- actually don't want their male partners to have control over the timing of their climax.
Four categories which I devised to describe the types of women who might sabotage the long-lasting lover:
1) There are some women who regard a fast squirt as testimony to their overpowering irresistibility. "He found me so divinely alluring that he couldn't contain himself." Many of this type are throwbacks to an age when a wife regarded her man's pleasure as more important than hers; when a female's worth was measured more by her power to gratify and nurture others than to attend to her own needs
2) There are some women who may not want a rush to judgment but who are nevertheless strongly attached to having a smoking gun: concrete proof that they've done their job of satisfying their man. No ejaculationless orgasm for these women, thank you; it's too ambiguous, too internal
3) There are some women who conspire to induce a quick and seemingly accidental orgasm because they want to use it to humiliate their partner, berate him for his inadequacy, and to have a bargaining chip to use in winning other, nonsexual concessions.
4) There are many women who are possessed by their DNA with the same demonic fervor as any man is by his. Their 30-year-old egos may be crying out, "Give me deep pleasure," while their 10 million-year-old reproductive machinery is hissing, "Give me a baby." The mandate to propagate the species wants the ejaculation now, not in two hours. Why else would evolution have made it so damn easy for a man to come?
I emphasize that these four motivations are not necessarily shining in the conscious awareness of women who are in the throes of making love. They are unconscious programs which covertly shape the way their body functions.
But by what mechanism would a woman accomplish this? My psychic powers did not extend that far at that time. Was it a regimen of physical exercises comparable to those I had done in order to become the control artist that I was? A secret of meditation that allowed her to transmute the subtle structure of the muscles and electrochemical environment in her silk furrow? An esoteric yogic technique by which she imprinted her very flesh with the affirmation that she was "complete unto herself" (the ancient meaning of the word "virgin") and did not, in order to pursue her mission on Earth, need to play a part in propagating the species?
Now it just gets kinda funny ... hehe
I lifted her up and danced her around the room, grunting like a sasquatch. With her arms around my neck and ankles locked at the top of my butt, she somehow managed to insert me into her and begin to pump herself up and down. My feet were freezing. Her housemate Annette, trying to sleep just a few feet away on the other side of the canvas wall, was cursing. Beth and I careened against a lit candle, knocking it to the floor, where it ignited a crumpled-up sheet of paper. Like a brave fool, I stamped it out with my left foot, inviting thousands of pain messages. In crazy collaboration, Beth jackhammered faster, and spanked me hard three times. I fell to her bed, dragging her on top of me. As she pinned me, she brought her face inches away from mine and began to channel secrets from the trickster part of her higher self.
"I don't need you to come in order to prove how beautiful I am," she murmured. "I'm exactly as beautiful as I need to be. I have, with the ripe soul power of my sacred desire for erotic bliss, overridden my womb's primordial mandate to feed it sperm."
"You speak the law," I said, amazed.
"I want to give you an orgasm like mine," she continued. "A rush that goes up and in instead of down and out. I want to invigorate, not enervate you. I want to push you towards Goddess, not ensnare you in my small needs."
"I have always had beautiful men," she continued, evidently not finished. "I deserve beautiful men. My gifts are magnificent. My love is a miracle. I open doors to realms of truth and beauty that no mere man can open by himself. So why should I welcome such a homely beast? Why let the world see me without a shiny prize on my arm, proof of my power to bewitch? For just one reason: Like no other man, you open doors to realms of truth and beauty I can't open myself."
As I remember all of this now, I am grateful. But in that moment, the insult overwhelmed the flattery. I was obsessed, wounded, writhing. I'm not that ugly, I raged without making a sound, no longer telepathically linked with her. Not ugly at all. My body -- slim, wiry, tall, flexible, athletic -- is beautiful, almost perfect. My hair is bushy, thick, wild. True, my face is less than handsome: the nose too big and weirdly- shaped, the acne pockmarks, the droopy eyelids. But not ugly. How dare she?!
But before I got so angry that I uncoupled us, one more revelation struck. It came as her orgasm arrived and I was broken open with the sensations of her alien sexuality. It was a collapse, not a projection. A whirlpool, not an arrow. I flashed on a series of pictures from the astronomy book I had as a child. The first showed the origins of the solar system as a vast, spinning nebula. In the second, vortexes of dust had begun to gather here and there, breaking the undifferentiated haze into thick spherical fogs. The third picture resembled what I was feeling in her now: the crackling moment of compression when gravity thunderously crosses the threshold and sanctifies the boundaries of the new planet
It calmed me. It returned me to my wisdom. What if, I thought, her skill at postponing my ejaculation had at least something to do with the fact that I wasn't beautiful to her? My stint with her brought a radical shift in my motivation for becoming a fuckmaster. Up till then, I held back mostly in order to serve my partner's pleasure. It was a strenuous and athletic sacrifice I made for her benefit. (Well, for mine too, I suppose, in the sense that I was attached to being considered a good lover.)
Yes, I could not help but have noticed that the longer I postponed the ejaculation, the more the sexual pleasure was inclined to billow and circulate to the far reaches of my body. But I was always too preoccupied with the strident art of control to fully enjoy that circulation. And I was always too focused on the reward that awaited me at the end to appreciate the rewards that were right in front of me.
I was not just not ejaculating. I was being released into long, billowing, throbbing, oceanic orgasms. And they were arriving over and over again . . . as a woman's does?
For the first time I glimpsed the possibility that what I had always believed was my deepest pleasure as a man was an obstacle to experiencing an even wilder, vaster, and more uplifting pleasure. "The good is the enemy of the great."
One by one, as my orgasms cascaded onward, the faces of many people I knew drifted into the focus of my awareness. As I visualized a heartful erotic ray radiating from me to them, I also beamed them a prayer imbued with a precisely specific understanding of their purpose on Earth and what it most needed to thrive at that particular moment.
This was not a consciously willed project. I was not trying to be a good boy. My delirious state of bliss itself seemed to generate the blessings. It was as if my small human form were dissolved in an elemental force whose sole function was to bestow beautiful benedictions.
If this were a doctoral thesis, I would conclude my argument with this point: A woman's attitude about the role of ejaculation is as important as a man's in determining the beauty and transformative power of sex
At one extreme is the lover who treats the jade stalk as a thing to be emptied of its reproductive extract. She tends to sabotage her own ecstasy even as she short-circuits her partner's access to the states of spiritual grace that become possible when his orgasm is liberated from his ejaculation.
At the other end of the scale is the consort who views ejaculation as at best an irrelevancy and at worst an impediment to both her and her partner's most sacred and useful sex. She seals into her actual flesh a command to stoke the jade stalk for as long as it takes to reach the blissful heights that open up the links to Goddess Herself
