I Think That Insects Will Inherit The Earth
Dodgy Wiring... When I was sixteen I got a very bad insect bite just above my left ankle on the inside of my leg. It took ages to heal but as it was getting better, I was at first alarmed and later delighted to realise that if I touched it, it was EXACTLY as though my fingers were wandering through that secret place between my thighs! The same feelings in the same places.
. . . So I used to prod it with the blunt end of a pencil or press it with the back of a finger nail; rest the heel of my right shoe against it or worry it with my guitar plectrum. And then it happened; one day in an English class on a particularly boring afternoon, I realised that I had passed that point at which my fate was sealed and I was going to come. I looked about me in abject horror as I slid inexorably down that slope; slowly at first, then faster and faster, unable to relieve the pressure on my special place. My mouth began to water and I felt the tell-tale dribble between my legs and I wondered if it would reach my skirt. Mr Stockton's silky voice never faltered, seemingly oblivious to the cataclysm about to overtake me. My eyes dropped, landing fleetingly on my hard nipples in clear view down the front of my shirt; a view that forced a tiny breath of air from my lips. I still have no idea how I kept quiet, but I convulsed over my desk as the waves rolled over me, rocking me in my seat, pulsing through my tummy and washing around all those places that make me a girl. And in that moment, I melted into a little puddle of girl, pooled in my seat waiting to be mopped-up, and eventually allowing a small gasp to escape my astonished lips.
When my eyes opened, the lesson was still going on around me, the world was still turning and Macbeth was still full of avaricious angst . . . But Gill's face next to me was a mixture of horror and envy, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or simply blame Banquo's ghost. To this day, she thinks I was faking it to wind her up.
My bite eventually healed; I stopped feeling constantly on the brink of paroxism and I could wear socks again without fear of random orgasms. But the 'connection' remained. Today, there is a tiny spot that is hyper sensitive. It's no more than a millimetre across but when I find it with a sharpened pencil tip, the ecstacy is immediate. I can still come just by jiggling the pencil, but mostly I use it as a way of relaxing; of relieving tension when I can't do a more conventional job. So, if you're ever in a meeting with me and you notice me scratching my left ankle with my pencil tip...
. . . So I used to prod it with the blunt end of a pencil or press it with the back of a finger nail; rest the heel of my right shoe against it or worry it with my guitar plectrum. And then it happened; one day in an English class on a particularly boring afternoon, I realised that I had passed that point at which my fate was sealed and I was going to come. I looked about me in abject horror as I slid inexorably down that slope; slowly at first, then faster and faster, unable to relieve the pressure on my special place. My mouth began to water and I felt the tell-tale dribble between my legs and I wondered if it would reach my skirt. Mr Stockton's silky voice never faltered, seemingly oblivious to the cataclysm about to overtake me. My eyes dropped, landing fleetingly on my hard nipples in clear view down the front of my shirt; a view that forced a tiny breath of air from my lips. I still have no idea how I kept quiet, but I convulsed over my desk as the waves rolled over me, rocking me in my seat, pulsing through my tummy and washing around all those places that make me a girl. And in that moment, I melted into a little puddle of girl, pooled in my seat waiting to be mopped-up, and eventually allowing a small gasp to escape my astonished lips.
When my eyes opened, the lesson was still going on around me, the world was still turning and Macbeth was still full of avaricious angst . . . But Gill's face next to me was a mixture of horror and envy, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or simply blame Banquo's ghost. To this day, she thinks I was faking it to wind her up.
My bite eventually healed; I stopped feeling constantly on the brink of paroxism and I could wear socks again without fear of random orgasms. But the 'connection' remained. Today, there is a tiny spot that is hyper sensitive. It's no more than a millimetre across but when I find it with a sharpened pencil tip, the ecstacy is immediate. I can still come just by jiggling the pencil, but mostly I use it as a way of relaxing; of relieving tension when I can't do a more conventional job. So, if you're ever in a meeting with me and you notice me scratching my left ankle with my pencil tip...
36-40, F
