Summary

The website content is a personal essay reflecting on the nature of pleasure, particularly sexual pleasure, and contrasting it with the obligatory use of the phrase "It's my pleasure" in social and work settings.

Abstract

The essay titled "When I Say 'It’s My Pleasure' I Don’t Really Mean It" delves into the author's introspection during a moment of intimate self-pleasure. Through the experience of multiple orgasms, the author ponders the authenticity of the phrase "It's my pleasure," questioning whether societal conditioning has led to a disconnect from genuine feelings of pleasure. The narrative explores the idea that true pleasure is often confused with politeness or professionalism, and that individuals may not fully grasp or acknowledge their own genuine experiences of pleasure due to this confusion. The author's epiphany is juxtaposed with the mechanical use of the phrase in daily interactions, suggesting a broader societal issue where the essence of pleasure is misunderstood or overlooked.

Opinions

The author suggests that the phrase "It's my pleasure" is often used insincerely, without truly reflecting the speaker's genuine pleasure.
There is a sentiment that people may have lost touch with what real pleasure feels like, possibly due to societal expectations or conditioning.
The essay implies that the routine use of the phrase in customer service or social situations might lead individuals to mistakenly believe they are experiencing pleasure when they are not.
The author reflects on the possibility of self-deception regarding one's own pleasure, hinting at a discrepancy between what is said and what is felt.
The experience of sexual pleasure, as described by the author, is presented as a contrast to the perfunctory use of the phrase, highlighting a profound difference between genuine pleasure and obligatory politeness.

How to Have Sex — The Anxious Enthusiast

When I Say “It’s My Pleasure” I Don’t Really Mean It

An epiphany through multiple orgasms

I was lying in bed with my vibrator pressed to me when I was reminded again of what pleasure was. I rocked the handheld device up and down and around, stilling its motion in the place that felt best for a breath, two breaths, and I spasmed.

The wave passed and I relaxed into the steady lull of rebuilding pleasure.

Why do we say that? I thought.

It’s my pleasure? It is most absolutely not. This. This is my pleasure.

My body rocked again, for longer this time. I moved my hand to the beat of the roaring in my ears until I could hear the buzzing of my toy over the quieter drone of delay.

Have we forgotten what pleasure is? Have we just been told to say something for a paycheck?

Time slowed and my hips rolled in response.

What if we come to think we mean it over time? What if we don’t know, or never knew, what our pleasure actually is?

I laughed deep and low in my chest at the comedy of my thoughts. In silence, I reached a high-level plateau of pleasure lasting one, two, then three minutes.

I lost track of time.

This would make a great article. Perhaps I’ll call it: When I Say “It’s My Pleasure” I Don’t Really Mean It.

My hand cramps around soft silicon. I pull back for a moment to bend my wet, aching fingers.

Because I don’t. The times I have said “It’s My Pleasure” have not felt like this.

My legs are dripping tears of sweat that bead and fall to the soft fur of the bed cover beneath my ass as I press in again.

Am I lying to myself then? Or am I simply lying to the object of my treachery?

Another quake and I am coursing, I feel my blood as thickness pressing wide the vessels in every part of me, from the backs of my eyes to my fingers and toes. Even my hair feels alive, full, and writhing.

I think when I say something is my pleasure, I want to mean it.

I am finished, but I am greedy. I fall back, only to feel another thread that is so easy to follow.

I want it to mean… this.

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