While it did lead me to several scenes in which a determined Brenda attempts to resist the siren call of a mostly topless, slightly bandaged Dylan, and one kinda hot, though brief, make-out (thanks for nothing, Mr. Walsh), it wasn’t enough to get my clitoris interested. Clearly she's not the nostalgic type.
I Drunk-Sexed Myself and Uncovered a New Orgasm
Like most sex ruts, this one ended with a little help from everyone’s fickle friend, alcohol—and a few hours of light flirting with a handsome waiter (kind sir, you’ll never know what good you’ve truly done).
The result was an epic orgasm. It wasn't more "intense" per se, but it did have a more sustained climax than my assisted orgasms (that is, it didn't peak as high, but it lasted longer). I won’t lie, I did stop at about the 13-minute mark for some lubrication (which seemed to up the sensitivity—bonus!), and yes, it took me longer than it would have with equipment, but I got there. And when I was done, I felt more spent than usual; ordinarily I would have waited a few minutes before starting up again, but this time I didn't need (or want) to. Maybe it was the physical workout, maybe it was the brainpower, or maybe it was both.
Here’s what I learned about zombie apocalypse masturbation: You are your own worst enemy. The moment I stopped thinking that my clit was staring up at me through my fingers with a disappointed look on her face, it all came together. My imagination had more than enough material to keep me occupied. While I did appreciate uncovering a brand-new type of orgasm, I can't say that manual masturbation (without porn) will become a regular part of my repertoire. I think I'll treat it more like CPR—an important life skill that's worth an annual refresher in case of an emergency.
Consider me prepared for the end of days.
