Dear Readers,
The entry below is about a very unique sexual practice called Orgasmic Meditation. I describe my introduction to “OM” in this post and this one, too. You’ll notice this story dives deep into the experience. I use some jargon terminology that’s specific to the inner world of OM. This includes detailed bits about female anatomy. When I first joined the OM community, I found their comfortable conversation about <the vagina!> overwhelming. Now that I’ve been around for a year, I can discuss <the vagina!> quite comfortably. Pay attention to how your body feels while reading this. If you notice tension or upset, take a breath or two. And if you’ve got any questions, feel free to comment.
Without further ado, here’s the raw experience of what happened to me yesterday when I had my friend Brett over for our Saturday, 2pm OM appointment.
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Brett arrives seven minutes early. I look at him through the peephole of my apartment door. His shirt is crisp white; he’s come from work. I ask him how it was. He says, “meh.”
I’m sad but not telling him. I know we’ll work it out in the OM. I go to the bathroom. I want to splash some water on my my vagina. I have a fear of having bits of toilet paper sticking to me for my OM partner to see. I don’t want to turn on the bathtub; don’t want him to hear that. So I decide to perch myself awkwardly near the sink, I lift my right leg up to balance on the bathtub ledge and knock my big, beautiful vanilla candle over. The glass shatters in the tub. I hear Brett ask me if I’m okay.
I’m okay. I’m disappointed that I broke a gift from a friend. I’m equally aware that my energy is cooking up something strong. I settle into the OM. Brett’s grounding is firm and gets the job done. As is typical with him, the moment he takes his first gloved stroke, his phone chimes; impeccable timing born from hundreds of OMs.
Tears leak out of my eyes, into my ears and onto the black pillow that I’ve doubled up under my head. We give each other frames. He notices that I’m withdrawn. I tell him I have a lump in my throat. He invites me bring all of that emotion to OM #2. Roger that.
I can feel my clitoris, my body, my spirit opening up as I remind myself, “You’re safe with this man.” My eyes are closed – my mouth is open. I silently repeat my favorite mantra: This is pleasure, and I want more.
Brett tells me that my introitus has just come online. This means that he feels a tingle of electricity coming from the opening of my vagina and into his thumb. This happened the last time we OMed.
Last Friday evening, I told Brett during the frames that I was confused. Was I experiencing G spot stimulation? Or was I imagining it? He said he was doing an advanced technique – some introital stroking. I see. Different than clitoral stroking that I had consented to. I knew what I had to tell him: I need you to ask permission from now on. He took the suggestion with the grace he takes every other adjustment. He thanked me.
So now, when Brett announces that my introitis has “come on line,” I chuckle. It feels like success to be in this moment, this space. And I know that he will not change his stroke without my permission. We hang out with the clitoral stroke for a good, long time. I like this – there’s nothing to improve upon.
Then he verbally offers a light introital stroke. This changes everything. The choice is now mine how my vagina is touched. Yes, I say, and this level of respect, this granular level of intimacy, I feel it all. My pussy lights up like a power grid.
And this is when I begin receiving information with a capital “I.” I am having a spiritual transmission. I am melting. I am here and gone. And this is what I learn:
The first thing I understand is that this machinery, my pussy, is a source of power. It has evolved through biology and a huge amazing, good thing. (I call it God.) The purpose of this source of power is sacred, healing and profound. It is also really delicate. It requires care, safety and just the right kind of attention to light up as mine is lighting up now.
The next piece of information I receive is this logic: the only way that this delicate system could evolve is over a lot of time. Women – my ancestors – have been touched in just the right way over and over, from one era and to the next. Women have released these beautiful energies through the millennia. And men. Amazing men have created safe spaces, havens, for women to shimmer and shine.
Then I receive the final piece of information. If women have evolved this way, “What happened?”
How is it that one in three women worldwide experience physical or sexual violence?
How did Puritanism happen?
Why have we been steeped in the pile of cultural horseshit that says that a woman’s sexual needs are muted, limited and certainly less than a man’s?
How did this information about power and pussy get so desperately lost?
I grieve. I grieve that I was brought up in a hostile environment for my unfolding. I grieve for myself and for the women – scores of us, millions of us – whose sex is disrespected, who are ogled in the street, who don’t have safe places to blossom.
What happened? How did it get this bad?
Whoever destroyed access to this sacred knowledge couldn’t destroy the equipment. Girl after girl is getting born right now with all the equipment and wiring. Today, May 17, 2014, my wiring lit up. I know this energy streaming through me is sacred; as right and sure as a waterfall.
The OM is still going and my hands are reaching up. Energy is streaming through my palms. Things I thought I cared about – money, survival – don’t matter at all. I have this magic going through me, and nothing, nothing the fuck else matters.
It is time for frames and my circuits are blown – I have no words. I just say, “a big thing happened and I don’t remember what happened before it.” Brett says, “that’s the best frame ever.”
I look at the moisture on the cloth that was under me. “I have cried out of my pussy,” I think to myself. I blow my nose into that cloth and say to Brett, “What a combination: tears, pussy juice, lube and snot.”
“Now that’s what I call an orgasm,” he says.