Sometimes I give myself orgasms as presents. And afterwards, I give myself another present for having such excellent gift giving skills. Then, while my legs are shaking as I pull down my skirt in the stall of the bathroom at work, I say a little prayer of gratitude to my absolutely wonderful clitoris and the god who gave her to me. He has excellent gift giving skills too.
Skirts are best. For me, anyway. Skirts with no panties. Skirts with no panties and stockings that rub slowly against me as my boss is telling me something infinitely more boring than what I’m thinking about.
The great thing about orgasms, though, is their minimum fuss for maximum gain. You don’t need a man. You don’t need money. You don’t need small talk, or instructions, sloppy drunk kisses or motivational books…you just need persistence. If you do have a man then even better (but don’t they always get it just a little wrong?). He can contribute. Or he can watch. But a woman…a woman is best. For me, anyway.
I am walking out of the stall and another lady comes in. She is not in a skirt. She looks flushed. In a hurry, almost. Her hands are hovering around suggestive regions and she stops short when she sees me. Her mouth, previously slightly open in an urgent pant, snaps shut. Her eyes widen. What does she think I’ve caught her in? I smile a lazy smile, not particularly caring, because after, I don’t particularly care about anything until the world butts in again. I close the door behind me, but not before I hear a zip being tugged down. And nothing after that.