As with most things in my life this is inextricably linked to cardigans, an example of which I always like to wear when protein is to be expelled in the most pleasurable way possible. On this occasion I was wearing a nice lambswool five-button number; it's getting cool enough in this neck of the woods to make wearing such a garment a non-sweaty proposition.
I doubt whether the trajectory of my persuit of orgasm matches exactly that of anyone else, but I imagine that there are certain features in common. The slow start, followed by the incremental stage and then the logarithmic stage reaching an asymptote to the actual expulsion of fluids.
By sheer force of will and the imagination needed to keep the cinema of onan showing more and more exotic sequels to the blockbuster that got me this far, I find it possible to hover at the asymptote for a protracted period. This was just the stage I was at; incessant thrashing; head thrown back; eyes rolled up into the skull, all accompanied by hyperventilation and loud groaning. Oh yes, it was going to be a good one.
I was on the home straight now, about to slip through that asymptote into uncharted gasm space. Breathing deeply and verbalising some of that wild fantasy, I was ready to splash gentleman's relish onto one of my favourite cardigans. I'm gonna...
"Have you any intention of buying that magazine?" Asked the man behind the counter.
Hence the picture below of an unbesmirched cardigan.
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