Dance the rim of the volcano for as long you can before you plunge to the flames and joy melts into heavenly ash
Edging on orgasmic ecstasy is a talent I honed as a child reveling in the mystical world of puberty as I lounged in the shade of an apple tree. Towering high on the hills above their home the topmost trees of my grandparent’s apple orchard provided a lonely, secluded place for a 12-year-old boy. Row after row of huge apple trees formed tunnels of green that shaded me from the burning summer sun and prying eyes. My job was to gather the branches pruned from the trees, cut them down to matching lengths and pile them into bundles to be picked up later with the tractor and trailer. “Picking up prunings,” as we called it, was the most backbreaking work of many tough jobs I did all alone in that orchard nestled below the mountains that formed the gulley of Grandpa’s farm.
Minds wandering in the lonely acres of much create wonders that long for intimate touch
Endless rows of pruned dead branches scattered beneath infinite tunnels of leaves created a hopeless mood of inability to endure. Endurance became a game of mental divergence in contest with physical pain. Playing with untapped fantasy gave a remarkable feeling of cozy, erotic loneliness that offered refuge from backbreaking labor. Those fantasies grew from imagination based solely on wonder. My knowledge of sexuality was far more a creation of feelings than of fact. I knew those budding feelings had everything to do with the difference between myself and girls and the more I thought about what that difference possibly could be the more profound were the sensations. With hands bruised and tender from stacking dry hard wood I learned to gently touch those parts of me that I had somehow learned girls did not have. I had no idea what girls had but I imagined it was much different than what my hands touched with magnificent effect.
The gentle way we learn to touch ourselves is the way we will lovingly touch our lovers
The effect produced a dramatic contrast to the endless pain of never-ending tedium. I soon learned to hover on the edge of finality without bringing it to an end. It would take about thirty minutes to stack all the prunings from a single tree into bundles. Before I tackled the next tree my fingers changed from cutting hard, dead wood to fondling hard, very lively, flesh. With each tree the incredible sensations demanded more control to keep them at bay and my mind learned over that long, hot summer how to tell my fingers when to tiptoe along that fiery rim without exploding into flame.
Learning to tiptoe around that rim of fire turns a clumsy boy into a woman’s desire
About ten minutes to noon I ecstatically let the demands take control and on my knees at the foot of a gnarled old apple tree I melted and flowed into the soft warm soil. Now hunger called and I jogged on down the rows of trees to Grandma’s house with an appetite that always challenged her abundant kitchen. At twelve I’d taught myself how to hover on the edge of climax: by the end of the summer for hours. And I learned that food tasted magnificent after a prolonged, mind seducing, soul-defining orgasm.
We can savor our addictions for food and for sex or turn our lives upside down and make escape our mind’s fix
Learning how to modify, how to prolong and cherish my addictions then savor the escape became my passion at a very young age. From deep in my adolescent mind I leaned to extend pleasure, how to make it build to ecstatic heights, when to give in to demands and how to relish the afterglow of a satisfied appetite for food and for sex. A controlled divergence from lonely labor in Grandpa’s orchard and a deliciously elongated lunch in Grandma’s kitchen has been honed for a lifetime.
Continued next blog: As I danced with the desire to extend joy forever, I longed for the want of a lady with edges of never