Pleasure and the past

Welcome to today, right now; for – as cliched as it rightly is – that’s all we ever have. Not 1 second ago, not 1 minute or hour ago, not 1 day, 1 month or 1 year ago; now. But, how often are we still bound by our past? Letting the spectre of who we were or how we were raised, the choices we made, the actions we did, kills pleasure in the now. Sure, our past is always present, but just how present is a choice we can make now. The distant past built us. Our childhoods are our training grounds; and nothing can ever change that. We live with the artefacts and the side effects of they way we were raised. Whether they haunt or sustain us, these ghosts are as loud or as quiet as we choose to allow them to be.

Go to fucking therapy. Talk about your shit. Blame your parents. Search for answers. Get to the why if that’s what you think you need to know; but ultimately this is a fruitless search. Sure, having a general understanding of why things happened – making sense of things – can be pretty helpful. It can give you insights and awareness that previously you were blind to. But don’t kid yourself that this will automatically change things. And don’t forget that our blindness exists for a very good reason; if nothing else for self-preservation. Once you see something, you can’t unsee it. A pickle can never go back to being a cucumber. Don’t bullshit yourself that facing your past will cure or change you; it may well make things (temporarily) worse. Or better yet, frustrate you even more because now you (think you) know why, but you’re still the same. Strange that.

The past is the past; it’s gone. We all live with reminders: the way we look, the tone of our voice, speaking to or seeing our family, photos, memories, our body shape, old friends, new friends, conversations, dreams, the actions we take. The shame we have, the denial we live in, the blind spots we refuse to see. It shows up same same but different, for everyone. At some point though, we have to make a decision about how loud we want our past to be. Let’s think about this, where’s your pleasure levels at now? Right now. 8/10? 2/10? What the fuck is going on if it’s anything less than a 7/10? What the fuck are you doing with your life? Are you chuckling at the people and objects that remind you of your past, or are you raging/despairing at them? Give it up. Choose to give up the fight to change your past; stop that fucking shit now. You owe it to yourself and to the Universe/God/Goddess/ One/sparkly-pink-unicorn that co-created you. Don’t fucking insult it! What we have right now, is nothing short of a miracle and a privilege. Get out of you head and into your body, your spirit and your life and dive into the pleasurable being that you always have been.

What comes up when you do this? Shame? Do you masturbate and find yourself loathing the images in your head or what you’re drawn to online? Do you fake orgasms (what the fuck, if you are!)? Are you faking life? Are you saying yes when you need to be saying no? Or no when you need to be saying yes? Where’s the fear? What is the fear? Face that damn fear. In my miniscle experience of life, it’s rarely as bad as you imagine it to be. And if it is, open the door to it and offer a hand; that beast is just as terrified as you are, I assure you.

Are you secretly afraid of your own pleasure? Your own power? The power of the Universe to move through you? Do you deny yourself pleasure in the now as a way to atone for the past? Again I say, stop that shit. That’s a big fat fuckburger and a waste of your time and your life. Make a choice; choose you. Choose tiny droplets of pleasure everyday, and gently allow yourself some moments to experience and remember (or create memories) of good stuff. Seriously, you deserve some good stuff. And you honestly have the power to create good stuff – aka pleasure – in your life. But you have to release yourself from the ball and chain of who you used to be. Who you thought you were. Who you are trying to be for everyone-fucking-else. Cut that shit out. Honour yourself. Honour the Universe. Put a hand down your pants and feel good. Pounce on someone who you know wholeheartedly consents (and probably longs) for you to pounce on them. Allow yourself to be fucked and/or orgasmed back to life. Remember your pleasure. Remember your right to pleasure. Take it with gratitude for everyone else who is no longer alive or doesn’t have the freedoms you do.

Orgasms are ‘just’ a way to touch God. It’s the Universe’s sneaky in-built way to get you to remember your divinity. Why else would women be able to have them given they serve no other purpose for people-with-a-clitoris other than to experience pleasure? High fives to the Universe for that one! If we are all born physically capable of experiencing this level of pleasure, why would we be unable to experience all sorts of pleasure beyond a sexual act or experience? Does feeling the sun on your face give you pleasure? Get some. Does watching your favourite show give you pleasure? Watch it. Does shoving your face in the fur of your pet and inhaling give you pleasure? Do it. Does a bath, hot shower, a kiss, a book, cooking, finger painting, debating, walking, swimming, running, hopping, writing, talking, laughing, connecting, travelling, youtubing, being tied up, sucking cock, licking pussy, licking ass, smacking, choking, eye-gazing, humming, star watching, nipple clamping, soft fucking, hard fucking, finger fucking, no fucking give you pleasure? Do it. Give yourself permission right. now. Give yourself a dose right now. Express your gratitude to God right now by engaging in pleasure. Choose to honour the past by moving into the present, and what better way to do that, to feel that, but with an orgasm.

Right now.

Published by The Pleasure Advocate

A pleasure seeker like every human, I have a background in therapy and health, and am a passionate student of human sexuality. I'm a pleasure-inclusive sex educator, writer, lover, mother, and sexual explorer. May (consensual!) pleasure be yours always, Melanie x

2 thoughts on “Pleasure and the past

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