(Hint: Forget the Flowers, Toys and Eye-Gazing)
I was OMing (Orgasmic Meditation) a few days ago. During the OM, it felt as if there were an inch of waxy paraffin between his finger and my clit. An irritating voice arose:
Why the hell can’t he find me?
Why does my spot keep moving?
Why don’t my OMs feel like they used to?
Am I being annoying asking for all these adjustments?
What do I want?
What do I want!
What Do I Want?!
The OM ended, I shared a frame with a copious amount of over-politeness (lest my angry, ravenous beast come out and bite off this poor guy’s head) and I asked for another OM. It started off the same way: we felt incredibly far away from each other. I couldn’t quite name it, but I knew there was something I wasn’t fully admitting to myself. There was some pulsing, hungry truth locked up in a ballerina music box with pink ribbons and smiley faces.
Then I asked for him to move his finger a little lower and to nestle it into the lower pocket of my clit. And that’s when it hit me: Fucking. I wanted fucking. But not just any kind of fucking. I wanted seedy, sleazy, $20-whore-in-a-cheap-motel-who-gets-used-then-left-in-a-pile-by-a-Wall-Street-creep-who-cums-with-his-tie-on kind of fucking.
Oh. Well that’s a little confronting.
I mean, I’ve had some “naughty” sex in my life, but this was a little difficult to admit. Aren’t I a free-thinking woman who believes in equality of the sexes? Aren’t I soooooo advanced in my OM practice that I should be beyond the hunger for quick climax and heavy pressure? Shouldn’t I be working towards feeling the expanded subtlety of the lightest strokes?
But the evidence was clear. I couldn’t feel a thing until I acknowledged my desire: I wanted some nasty sex. In that moment, my pussy swelled with wet heat, I sucked him deeper into me and little electric hooks gripped onto each ridge of his finger.
We as a culture are so shamefully hungry to the point of secretly obsessing about sex. We surreptitiously Google search for the sexual holy grail: the perfect pill or the perfect position or the perfect toy to make her curl her toes or have him beg for more. But none of that will make a difference if you don’t have the courage to do the one thing that will light you up like nothing else:
Tell the Truth.
Let’s say someone you have a crush on is sitting right next to you. Connect with your body in that moment. Can you feel your heart beat faster and your palms sweat? Does the thought of telling this person that you want to kiss him/her make you feel like you are going to fly out of your body?
Or perhaps you’re in a relationship and you’ve had some fantasies of bringing home the secretary. Imagine sharing that desire with your partner. Can you feel the nervous, carbonated tickle of the hairs on your neck?
Or imagine that you are angry at someone and you are finally letting out all your unfiltered rage. Can you feel the heat in your face, the hammering in your chest and the swelling in your throat?
Conversely, every time you withhold your desires or feelings, you are packing more rotting, unexpressed energy on top of your orgasm. Over time, each caked-on layer gets thicker and thicker and you have to work harder and harder to maintain the ruse that the solidified mask of lies is your truth. Eventually, you may even start to blame the people in your life for all that crap weighing you down.
This is at the heart of why relationships fail.
It’s not that the sex gets bad and then the relationship goes down the tubes. It’s actually the other way around. The relationship starts failing when we stop telling the truth, either out of laziness or fear of losing the person. When that happens, the first thing we run from is the exposed and highly volatile arena of sex. We make up excuses about why we can’t have it: too tired, too busy, not in the mood, have a headache, it’s not that important, we have different schedules, the kids exhaust us—we’ve heard them all (and have probably even used a few at some point).
It’s not until the years go by and we find ourselves on the brink of a desperate, sexual starvation that we then grasp on to anything to save the relationship. You can pile on as many romantic getaways, kinky toys and love-making classes you want. But unless you have the courage to speak your truth, you’ll just end up in a candle-lit beach bungalow, handcuffed to the bed and gazing into the eyes of someone you’ve been loathing for the past ten years. Nothing fundamental will change.
We have to learn to strip sex down to its barest essentials: me, the sensation in my body and my desire. That’s it. Once you’ve tapped into that, share it with someone. If that person doesn’t want to meet you there, let them go. They are not for you. If they are willing to play, treat them well—and continue to stay honest about your desire.
This is why whenever I am feeling disconnected sexually, I don’t rush to fix a “problem” or assign blame for why someone else is a crappy lover. I slow down and ask myself the questions: What am I running from? Where am I lying? What am I not admitting? As in the case with my OM, I wasn’t admitting the part of me that likes being a tacky, climax-driven, trashy whore. The moment I gave her permission to exist, my body flushed with orgasm.
The turn-on lies in the admission itself—in the moment of expressing desire. What happens afterwards is simply choice. I could go out and pay some douchebag for a lay (perhaps not the option for most, but if we are to work towards healing the shame around sex, we must hold all preferences and appetites with respectful equanimity). I could enroll a willing partner to play out the scene with me.
Or I could let the acknowledged desire sit in my body and carry it around as my happy little secret to brighten the day.
Once you admit your truth, sex becomes about abundance and exploration, rather than fear and hiding. Maybe you want to experiment with wielding a flogger—or perhaps you want to try celibacy—or maybe you’ve been dying to have sex to that one Michael Bolton song playing on the stereo. Either way, you have chosen to express yourself from a place of erotic authenticity.
So go on. Admit it. Remember, the truth will not only set you free—it also makes for great sex.
Bonus: From Author’s Desire Playlist: Ben Harper singing ‘Dirty Little Lover’
Editor: Kate Bartolotta
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