It really must be exhausting and frightening not being able to fucking orgasm, right?

Being right. fucking. there. and not being able to come

So hey, that’s me

I’ve been in a one year relationship

I’ve tried fucking dudes at a house party

Nothing. Nada.

Only I can make myself go over that edge

You’d think i’d be over the worst night of my life

And I am, really, I am, my body doesn’t seem to agree, though

You’d think I’d be over it by now.

Two years later, a different bed, different hands, a different version of me that swears she’s fine. That she’s healed. That she’s normal again.

And I am—on paper.

I laugh easily. I flirt. I let people get close enough to think they know me. I let him kiss me like I’m not constantly somewhere else in my head, watching instead of feeling.

But my body—

My body remembers.

It remembers the night everything snapped sideways. The moment pleasure stopped being simple and turned into something sharp, something tangled. Like a wire pulled too tight that never quite loosened again.

So now, I get close.

So close it’s almost cruel.

Right there, balanced on the edge, breath caught, muscles tight, heart racing like it knows what’s supposed to happen next.

And then—

Nothing.

It’s like a door slams shut in my chest.

Like something inside me just… refuses.

And I’m left there, suspended in it. Frustrated. Embarrassed. Quietly panicking while pretending I’m not.

Because what am I supposed to say?

“Hey, sorry, my brain short-circuits at the finish line”?

“Don’t take it personally, it’s just my nervous system betraying me”?

So I fake a smile. I fake being satisfied. I fake ease.

Because that’s easier than explaining why the one thing that should feel natural feels like trying to run in a dream—legs moving, but going nowhere.

And the worst part?

It’s not that I can’t.

It’s that I can.

Alone, it’s different.

Alone, there’s no pressure. No eyes on me. No expectations humming in the background. No fear creeping in at the edges.

Alone, I’m in control.

nothing works with men

nothing

I’ve lowkey just given up

I’m currently nursing a drink with my friends when it happens, there’s a group of boys, none really my type, they flirt, i say no, that i’m not interested, until one puts his hand on my ass

every alarm in my body goes off

I’m about to slap him, when a deeper voice, a very sexy voice by the way, one behind us, stops us both, dead in the tracks

“I don’t think she wanted you to do that”

It’s not loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

The kind of voice that cuts clean through music, through chatter, through that sticky, too-warm air of the room. Low. Controlled. The kind that doesn’t repeat itself.

The guy behind me freezes.

For a second, his fingers linger—like he’s deciding whether to push it.

Big mistake.

“Take your hand off her. Now,” the voice adds, quieter this time. Sharper.

The hand disappears.

I turn.

And yeah—okay.

That voice makes sense now.

Yeah.

He looks like the kind of person who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be taken seriously.

Not the loudest guy in the room. Not the flashiest. No cocky grin or overdone swagger like the others. Just… solid. Grounded in a way that feels almost out of place here, like he walked into the wrong scene and decided to fix it anyway.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show strong forearms, veins faintly visible under the low light. There’s something restrained about him—like everything he does is deliberate, measured.

Controlled.

His eyes flick to me for half a second.

Quick. Assessing.

Not lingering.

Not undressing.

Just… checking.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

And it’s such a simple question, right?

Normal.

Basic.

But something about the way he says it—like he actually expects a real answer, not a polite brush-off—makes my throat tighten for a second.

“Yes” for some reason, my voice comes out strangled, just a little bit, but enough

Either he doesn’t hear it

Or he doesn’t give a shit

Because there’s literally no reaction