Words Fail Me

As you may have noticed, I'm ridiculously verbal. I love words. I love descriptions. I love exploring ideas and emotions by naming them.

When I am in times of great transition in my life, I am compelled to write (really? gee, the three blog posts / day wouldn't have given us any clue at all about that), and seeing my swirly conflicting thoughts transformed into stable, trustworthy, playfully squiggly letters has been known to calm me, and help me sort through my issues. I have felt gratitude after writing, to the words themselves, for appearing, and for their assistance.

So on a call with me, you can expect me to be able to pick up details and convey them. Textures, smells, tastes. The position of my hand, how you've made my skin feel, and what is brushing against where.

Until. Ummmm. Then.

I have at least a dozen types of orgasms, and they don't all render my speech centers useless, but there are two or three that do. They're not better experiences, not stronger, not more desirable; for example, I can talk fine through the soft rolling orgasm that I choose most often when I'm masturbating alone. But on the way to building up to certain types of climaxes, I go decidedly non-verbal. I can still think and feel, but thoughts and feelings no longer form words that make it out of my mouth.

It's a combination, I think, of sex-hormones, how much sleep I've had, how much I've talked that day, and what type of sensations I'm having. In other words, frustratingly unpredictable.

So, if suddenly I seem incapable of more than "Yes" and "Oh" and "Oh yes," well, now you know why.