OP, I'm still thinking about your dilemma. It seems to have two parts. The first part, is that it's taking you too long to get off. The second part, is that you have had, and continue to have,
narcissists convincing you that your porn consumption
(and, as my fellow Siciliana, Cyndi Lauper, referred to it, 'MasterBingo' - at 1:45: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFq4E9XTueY). As Cyndi says in the song, about "Self-service",
"I won't worry. And I won't fret. Ain't no law against it, yet."
What a video! It's a host of onanistic metaphors
(including the old myth that "it" causes blindness), and even pulls in a bit of imagery from
'A Clockwork Orange'.
To zero-in on something I mentioned in a previous post, you need to consider SUSTAINED EXCITEMENT. You know how you'll be working toward a crescendo, and something comes along to disrupt the symphony? With couples, it's a knock on the door, or a ringing phone. With singles, it tends to be a disgusting image, or an inexplicable twenty-second camera pan to a sunset on the beach, or jungle birds in the trees, or a potted plant - basically anything which will break your concentration, and
cause your buildup to be RESET AT ZERO.
What resets your launching sequence before blastoff? Is it the disgusting makeup applied to the women? Is it one of the infinitely boring acts, which seem to take up half the film, in exactly the same sequence, in every single wretched film, before you get to the good part
(which lasts for a few seconds, while the boring parts lasted for eternities)? Is it the now-inevitable moment at the end, when the poor woman's makeup-caked eyes are looking up, cringingly waiting for the...
'Fright Mask Makeup' is the term currently used by men in my world
(The straight ones, the Gay ones, and the ones-in-between), for the cosmetology applied to a lot of women, today. Our kids chose the Pacific Northwest, when we escaped Mississippi, because of the PNW's abundance of well-scrubbed/makeup-free women - young women who had actual faces instead of painted-on fright masks. My husband was explaining how they all feel, when confronted by the face paint.
"It's like that kangaroo attacking the stuffed animal." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_NqulhmZWc "That's what we want to do - flight or fight - a rush of CORTISOL... instantly - the opposite of attraction."
Is it the cheap shoes, covered in glitter? Is the problem with the awful sets? ...with the lighting? ...with the color? You need to identify the problem(s), then
avoid, modify, edit, and CURATE.
Also, you need to train yourself to achieve your goal, within a short time frame. The body automatically will hit reset
(I forget the amount of time, but think it's twenty five minutes). DH and I, once our teenage hormones were gone, and the weight of the world seemed to have been transferred to our shoulders, could no longer spend hours-per-session. There wasn't even time for undressing, for our mid-day encounters. So, soft silk neckties, and silk-&-cashmere suiting material became musts for him, because I like the way they feel. On me, he likes the contrasting coolness of pearls and well-set pavé bracelets and torque necklaces. DH trained himself to be finished in minutes,
because he had to - which is nice, because the new time limit is quicker than the body's auto-reset.
Also, be aware of an old saying, which my mom used, for reassuring her "clients":
"...takes ya all day, ta do whut ya used to do-all-day." It's a natural part of maturation, as testosterone levels descend from their initial youthful overabundance. Transcending this, is another reason why you need
tightly-edited/well-curated erotica.
Now, to address those narcies telling you there's something wrong with you and your
natural urges. That sort is as old as time. They've been around, since religion first became weaponized, and used as a tool for subjugating others. Maybe they even predate that.
The narcissist wants to convince you that you're defective. They do it to everybody
(except those with whom they're temporarily identifying, and those with whom they're momentarily currying favor). They're experts at it. They love to act noble and play the hero.
And they love to hurt others.
I had a very generous uncle. He'd been a hottie - a Michael Landon lookalike - right down to a famous feature we can't mention. As with all my uncles, the guilt and stress of growing up in troubled, disreputable, and illegal surroundings, turned him into a narcissist. Later in life, as carbohydrates and lack of exercise stole his looks,
interruptions of his Narcissistic Supply, turned his narcissism malignant. Unlike the other uncles, though, he was a narcie of the generous/noble variety. His generosity and "advice" tended to backfire, though. Thank heavens my uncles
(who'd each fled Mississippi as teens) "discovered" my existence, AFTER I was married with kids, and after I had a doctorate and a career and a burgeoning net worth. He could have destroyed me.
Immediately after my
"discovery", when we began going to the uncles' various beach houses and woodland retreats
(thank heavens they were barred from decent country clubs), he started trying to shepherd me
(and my very hot husband, for whom he probably lusted) into all sorts of noble thoughts and virtue signals. He was VP/Counsel for a big concern, then a regional icon of Jurisprudence, and made the sort of money one expects. But between his philanthropic endeavors, and his clueless startups
(his never could understand that marketing and virtue signaling are not the same thing), he and his wife did not stay rich. Nonetheless, he tried to convince me that
I was doing it wrong. A landlady since my teens, I'd already developed an immunity to destructive people and the situations which brew around them. But others were not so lucky. He derailed plenty of young people who'd been on the right track - until he
"helped" them see what they were doing
"wrong".
His kids are virtuous-but-tortured.
His grandchildren are the most troubled in "our" whole extended family - and in novel ways I'd never have imagined. The other uncles own-up to being monsters. Like me, they make no bones about it. While Virtuous Uncle and his brood bristled as we took-over restaurants in gated resorts - Château Margaux flowing like water, and the various other uncles, their big blonde wives, and their typical
Lower Eastern Seaboard Rich Kid grandkids talked about their various capers on various Bahamian islands and boats, DH & I and our own brood, would enter the banter - not drinking, but not disapproving - enjoying the unending stream of scandal, and throwing a black card on the table, sometimes, to grab the check. Meanwhile, Virtuous Uncle sat aghast - particularly when I and the kids and DH would share some unmentionable detail about some movie person we knew from summers renting in the Malibu Colony. DD would be in the middle of some Malibu or Aspen tale, and Virtuous Uncle would hear the words,
"...Mumsy... tape measure... of course he didn't mind!", and Virtuous Uncle would be turning red or white, and shooting glances at his similarly-disapproving brood. A moment later, Virtuous Uncle's head would turn, upon hearing conversation fragments from one of our sons,
"....Daddikins.... quarters... Begley... bigger!" The rest of us have been doubling in net worth, with regularity. The Virtuous Ones, however, have a string of failed corporations behind them, and only survive because of a few good patents they've managed to defend.
We've got a place in Hell's Kitchen - basically a private hotel/timeshare/flophouse for the family - mostly the "kids" - a pied-a-terre in Manhattan - a floor of a repurposed old industrial building which an uncle acquired in some way he'll never tell. The few times we saw Virtuous Uncle there, in-town for board meetings or as a stopover between continents, his fists were balled-up, and his neck was all veiny and throbbing. He worried about our Decorator's keeping an intern there - a live-in fluffer of the decor/coordinator of workmen/waterer of the rooftop garden. He worried about the other uncles' little jets, and the morality of having them. He worried about the kids' peregrinations. He worried, worried, worried, and did his best to lecture.
And none of it did any good.
Live your life, OP, and STOP WORRYING!
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Op: There's nothing wrong with you
