ELECTRIC RAZOR

Irma Wimple

 

 

 

 

 

She discovered it while shaving her legs.

She paused, letting the electric razor rest against her thigh. The sensations that traveled to her delicates from the vibrating razor captivated her. She stopped shaving and moved the butt end of the razor higher and higher, until the resonating device was nestled against her womanhood, pressed close and high, as she closed her legs tightly. Her head tipped back and she lost herself in the sensations.

Slowly the iris of her awareness shrank down to the warmth beating between her legs. The sounds of the stereo, the draining bath, the traffic, the feeling of the cold ceramic tile under her feet, the rush of air from the furnace all faded. She knew only the interaction of the razor’s buzz and her own heartbeat, which she could feel more strongly now in her clitoris than in her chest. She held still for a long time, holding the razor against herself. She felt the need to move, and made tiny pelvic thrusts, holding the razor still. The tiniest movements felt so good to her, and escalated her incrementally each time—finally, to a place she had only known in dreams.

With no warning she crested the hill, fell over the edge, and strong throbbing contractions bloomed from deep under her clitoris, threatening her focus on the hand holding the razor. In ever-spreading ripples, the intense orgasm throbbed countless beats, sending warm pleasure daggers into her entire body. It was almost too much to bear.

She was silent and still—anyone watching her would only see her catch and hold her breath. No one would witness the red heat pulsing within her before it subsided, and she took a deep quavering breath, and a dreamy beatific smile was left upon her face.

She left the razor where it was and soon climaxed two more times; smaller throbbing aftershocks that threatened to overload her pleasure centers. Afterward, she stumbled to the living room in her terry-cloth robe, curled up in a beanbag chair, and fell profoundly asleep in a sunbeam.

She found other things in her flat which produced similar effects when used unconventionally. Her tiny food processor, pureeing spinach or beans, could release her with a quick shotgun orgasm after a day of speed and tension. She had to practice pressing against it in exactly the right position; reaching her orgasm required navigating a narrow channel of sensation. If she deviated too much, she was swept around it in an eddy and it passed her by, leaving her sweaty, itchy, and frustrated. Placing the processor on a kitchen chair and standing against it, knees bent, worked remarkably once she had awkwardly discovered it.

She began to eat a lot of processed food and soups.

Sitting on the vacuum cleaner took a long time, but the orgasms came from deep within her and lasted and lasted, until she had to fall, squirming and sighing, off her perch on the base of the machine. She humped the floor then, or her John Lennon pillow, until the tiny clutching aftershocks came and came, erasing her identity, collapsed and carpet-burned until morning.

She acquired the habit of hanging around the laundry room and sitting on the washer pretending to read a book during the spin cycle. The other tenement denizens suspected nothing—only watching her eyes becoming fixed on the text, and the clutching and holding of her breath would give away her booming squeezing laundry-room climaxes. She would sit, her undies feeling tighter and tighter, a swelling thumping rising from below until she thought she would pee her pants. Then the silent invisible wave would squeeze and squeeze her hot throbbing sex until she nearly fell over.

She had an old drill which was slightly off-center, and when she turned it outward and held the butt of the drill against her mound, she rapidly climbed through the sensations to a short, flutteringly rapid and intense orgasm. She could repeat these by reapplying the machine as soon as she could again control her hand, until she was exhausted and felt her entire abdominal area cramp as it would during her period. She would not be horny for days after one of these, but a bit sore and bruised.

She began to shop at home-and-kitchen-supply stores during off-hours, so she could turn on the appliances and feel their motors. She acquired an ability to predict the type of orgasm from the feel of the machine in the store. She bought a breadmaker, whose kneading paddles set her throbbing but left her unsatisfied, and she had to go use the electric razor to bring herself off. The razor always gave her the longest, most satisfying, and most multiple climaxes. She turned back to it when the other machines didn’t have the depth, the focus that the tiny rechargeable razor gave her.

She bought a cordless electric screwdriver that she would hold between her legs with no head attached while she was sitting at the computer. An hour would go by and she would forget it was there, as its charge started running out, and suddenly she would need to get off the chair, clasp something soft between her legs, and squeeze and squeeze until a tiny, soft, clutching orgasm reached up to her from the depths. The magnitude of these was low, but the duration was high, and they left her smiling and sleepy.

Summer came, and she found that she could lean against the frame of her boxy window fan, pressing the rounded corner into her pubic mound through her clothes. She pushed against the vibrating fan, very carefully, getting the vibrations in exactly the right place. The climax would come without warning, again, lofting her over the unseen barrier, and she slid, throbbing, down, down, down into hot red squeezing pulsing oblivion.

She rarely made any outward show of passion during these machine-driven orgasms. The entire torrent, the pulsing flood of sensation, was so internal and private that little escaped to the outside world. She did not need to moan and fling herself about. The quieter she was, the more intensely she felt the sensations. Her eyes were always closed to keep her focus narrow, within her, avoiding distractions and stimuli from outside.

This new world of oblivion in climax fascinated her, and she wanted to explore all corners and depths of feeling she could attain. She had only slept with one man, her inept and distant high school boyfriend, and never once achieved anything near her electric razor orgasm. She owned dozens of electric, cordless, and windup machines, and became very skilled at creating a climax to suit her mood.

But she was lonely.

One day she went down to the laundry room to empty the dryer. There was a man there, lanky black hair still wet from a shower, unshaven, in a tight V-neck white T-shirt and jeans, barefoot. He was reading a book, sitting on her favorite washer, on spin cycle.

She smiled.