Pot Helps pt. 10 ([some sort of] Edging)

Dear son,

I always just assumed it was just my own kind of, I dunno, weird obsession with savoring the best part. Like when I was a kid if I were at a restaurant with my family or something I would always save the favorite part of my meal for the end and everyone would be looking at me in my 7-14 year old body thinking I hated chicken or something because you know I would get [some sort of] a pasta thing with chicken in it or something like that and I would pick around the chicken because growing up I loved chicken a shitload and I had this almost problem with even enjoying the things I love because of that awful paradox of having the things you love physically in front of you along with the future enjoyment they bring and actually enjoying them which meant of course you no longer had the prospect of future enjoyment because they were no longer physically in front of you.

So I just figured it was proprietary to me because of the aforementioned chicken bullshit. And so during my 'sessions' I would get myself closer and closer and closer and every time I'd hold off, right at the last minute. I think the best way to describe it would be if you had [some sort of] physiological control of you're sneezing and you just kept tickling yourself and going to the point where you knew you had to get ready to shut your eyes because you're getting ready to do your thing and then stopping the whole process and starting from step one, the tickling.

At first the motivation was to just hold off on the best part until I eye-fucked and pseudo-fucked every single one of those nude women in that 1993 issue of Penthouse Magazine buried deep in the large Tupperware box that contained my father's hunting paraphernalia of which I had to return to the exact position that I found it in so I could pretend that I was still wholesome even though now later in life I realize that no matter how sneaky I was when borrowing and returning the 'hunting reading material' that my father already knew damn well that I was doing crazy, exploratory things to my body after he had gone to bed at night regardless of any evidence of tampering with his Tupperware box, because once you get to adulthood you realize all the clamor and self-righteousness about touching yourself is unwarranted because, fuck, everyone needs to get off and everybody does. Or should.

And I thought maybe I was doing some sort of damage to myself getting so close like that and then holding back like maybe I would mess up the wiring between my nut sack and my bladder but shit here it is now like almost ** years later and I still occasionally practice it and I'm all good. And also once I started having sex with actual girls I realized that holding off on the fireworks was a major part of the game in order to not look like you suck at your biologically commissioned ultimate life-task unless you were comfortably drunk or something, or you totally disrespected the girl and you could have your way with her ignorant pussy and the whole feeling superior thing would allow you the confidence to either hold off on the 'Junk Shot' or if you did it right away who gives a fuck because she's a dumb slut anyway, right?

And so the funniest part of all of this is that I could never for the life of me think of a word to describe this particular activity. I mean, sometimes I would just sit there befuddled and try to come up with [some sort of] a trendy or clever description of what I was doing and as much time as I spent on trying to come up with some title I was also trying to find out if there was already some well-known post-adolescent title that I just haven't heard yet and needed in my vocabulary.

It's crazy to realize the kind of personal nostalgic and historical significance of pretty much giving up on believing there is even a term for such sort of activity, and then having what turns out to be the best friend you've ever had in the worst and best times of your life telling you a story about this girl he knew who, when jacking off some dude, liked to stop right before the recipient of her hand job 'cycled out' or 'came his fucking bones out.' Whatever you want to call it.

He told me,
that she told him,
that she called it 'Edging.'

So way back somewhere around 2001-2005 I finally had a name for it, but now I was even more perplexed as to how this woman knew when to pull back from her hand job routine and maybe do something like slap the guy in the face or turn on any sort of CBS sitcom in order to stop him from releasing his cum-volcano. Like, was she good at it? She had to be, if she gave it a name. I couldn't even come up with a name for it and it's not like I was that great at 'edging' myself because sometimes I still slipped up and completed when it wasn't my intention of doing so.

So I'm sure the question that's burning inside of you right now is:

"Will practicing 'Edging' give me more 'stamina' in bed?"

The answer is: No.

All that stamina shit is in your head, and it's all about confidence, like I mentioned earlier. Having to think or not think about your ability to perform in bed with a sexual partner is just one of the many drawbacks of being a *FUCK,EAT,SLEEP* kind of creature that also has to manage these goddamn complex emotions and if you also have the burden of being one of these 'hyper-aware, where does it all and I fit' type of individuals, which you very well may be having my genes and all, well then you need to learn (and learn fucking fast) to get in touch with that *FUCK,EAT,SLEEP,AND CONQUER!* side of you so you can go about pounding ignorant pussy without automatically visualizing yourself as a sexual failure before you even get a chance to be reckless and talk dirty or spank an ass or two. Or 45.

Sincerely,
dad.