The Orgasmic Meditation workshop was on a Saturday. Nicole Daedone answered questions from the students for a few hours and finally gave us what we were rooting for: a demonstration.
An assistant rolled a table-like platform to the front of the room. Someone else placed an apron on Nicole. “For what?” I wondered with glee.
Nicole introduced Rachel to the group. Rachel had been involved with OM for over six years. In her twenties she had been falsely diagnosed as anorgasmic – a death sentence for her young sexuality that promised that she would never, ever experience an orgasm. Oh, if that doctor could see her now.
Rachel made herself comfortable on the rolling table – which was outfitted with sheets and pillows. She removed her fashionable jeans and panties, lay on her back and butterflied her knees apart so her open pussy was facing all sixty-something of us.
I spotted an empty folding chair that was prime viewing distance from Rachel’s pussy. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I said as I maneuvered myself into the best seat in all of Los Angeles.
“As you can see,” Nicole explained both tenderly and clinically, “her labia are already swollen.” Indeed they were – my goodness! “And if you look closely, you can see the pulsing around her introitus.” I zeroed in and was shocked to see that yes, Rachel, was pulsing. Was she always like that? Was she anticipating what was about to happen? Was she turned on? I think Rachel was pre-turned on!
Nicole warned the audience, “don’t compare yourselves to what you are about to see. We’ve both been practicing for years.”
Nicole scooped up from a jar some specially formulated lubricant. She put some on the thumb of one hand and some on the forefinger of her other hand. Another glob was placed on the back of her hand in case it was needed later. All of this was done with an expertise and ease that spoke of a deep familiarity with the routine.
Nicole placed one hand under Rachel’s butt and then put her thumb at the base of her introitus – which is the entrance of her vagina. Her other hand was put to the task of stroking Rachel’s clit. I can’t exactly tell you what happened next – but some words used by our group later included “poetry,” and “symphony,” “jazz” and “Jimi Hendrix guitar solo.”
There was no distinguishing where Rachel’s pleasure began and Nicole’s ended. There were moans, animal sounds, pants and quiet moments – all of it calibrated and orchestrated by Nicole who played Rachel’s pussy like a rock star.
Nicole explained to the group amidst it all, “I’m going to cool her down,” and Rachel would quiet, “and now we’ll go for one more peak,” and Nicole took Rachel on a roller coaster. Nicole would silently open her mouth and Rachel would moan on cue. It had to be seen to be believed.
We adjourned for lunch. I was dazzled, dazed, sad, overwhelmed. I could barely put into words how I was feeling but didn’t feel fully myself again for several hours. One thought I had – upon seeing a glimpse of the level of pleasure possible for women – was, “what took us so long to get here?”
You know you want some Jimi right now.