I’ve Been Holding In A Tantric Orgasm For 22 Years. Please Don’t Touch Me

When I first learned that I could delay orgasm with tantric breathing techniques, I went straight to work. In time, and with plenty of practice, I eventually mastered the Kapalbhati Pranayama breathing method that helped me control my muscle contractions. A few minutes of a withheld orgasm soon turned into an hour, which turned into a full day’s-worth of delaying orgasmic satisfaction. The eventual orgasms were intense and euphoric. So I figured why not wait a little longer and see how good it feels then. That’s why I’ve been holding in an orgasm for the past 22 years, and it is also why I ask that you do not touch me. Please.

Holding in this orgasm takes incredible concentration and even the slightest pleasurable brush against my skin could interrupt it, causing my pants to erupt in ways that could be unpredictable and potentially dangerous.

The orgasm began during a jazz festival in Panama City, Florida in 1996. My then-girlfriend and I were aroused by a smooth jazz alto sax cover of Bill Withers’ “Just The Two Of Us” when we snuck away to have sex behind a row of portable toilets. Using my usual tantric breathing techniques to extend the experience dozens of minutes longer than it should have (especially considering only a half-inch of plastic separated us from a carousel of sweaty jazz-loving defecators), we outlasted the other couples also having sex behind the portable toilets by close to an hour. However, the experience didn’t end with a satisfying climax, but rather with event security disbanding us with a hose. A few minutes later I realized I hadn’t released my orgasm. And the rest is history.

Not submitting to the spasm of pleasure began as a matter of convenience, but it’s turned into a challenge with a grand prize of a massive, earth-shattering orgasm that I’m beginning to think could blow out windows in a currently unknown (but surely massive) radius. Since I have to devote so much effort to maintaining a state of postponed satisfaction, I can’t stress enough that I am not to be touched in any way. I would be so infuriated that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it, even as I mercilessly climaxed with over two decades worth of semen and muscle contractions, leaving a literal crater where I stand. It’s sure to be the single most awe-inspiring display of sexual pleasure ever recorded, and I’ve considered selling tickets to the event.

However, I’m starting to think this orgasmic powder keg might be reaching its limit. It can, and likely will, be set off with any kind of physical stimuli my body interprets as arousing—and my body’s definition of arousal is pretty loose at this point. A small poke to get my attention may seem completely nonsexual, but that one little gesture might be all I need to devastate a city block (and my spirit) with the power of my pleasure.

People ask me why I’ve been saving this orgasm. The truth is I really don’t know. Maybe for that special someone; maybe to rocket propel me out of harm’s way if I’m ever confronted by an oncoming train. Or maybe it’s just basic human curiosity. I just know that I’ve cultivated this orgasm for over two decades and I don’t want those years ejaculated away because you want a high five. So please, keep your hands to yourself and let me blow a titanic load in my pants on my own terms.

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