Orgasmic Meditation Part 1

“I experienced an hour-long orgasm.”


“I had a kundalini awakening.”


“I felt orgasmic waves rush through my body as I stroked her clitoris.”


Due to a strange turn of events, I’ve found myself at a talk about orgasmic meditation, a practice where a woman gets the upper left quadrant of her clitoris stroked by a partner for 13 minutes, followed by two minutes of “grounding” where the partner gently presses on her vulva. Those who partake in OM, as it’s called, say all the above things about it and more. Allegedly, it elevates you to a higher state of consciousness, connects you with your intuition, and makes you sexually hyper-responsive.


The practice’s creator explains during her talk that despite its name, OM’s goal is not a sexual climax. Climax, she postulates, is only the last stage of orgasm. Rather than go for a climax, which tends to end the whole experience, women who have been OMing get into the “orgasm state,” where your mind goes blank and you’re consumed with the utmost pleasure. Women will experience vaginal contractions, squirting, flushing, engorgement, and all other signs of climax in the orgasm state — the difference is just that it can go on and on. On a 10-point scale representing all forms of orgasm, she says, climax is just a one.


I’m skeptical, but I’m intrigued. And the OMers I meet pique my interest more. The women’s eyes are open so wide you can see the white above their pupils; their lips are full and spread in smiles that stretch across their cheeks; their bodies move with ease and confidence and pleasure. You can tell it feels amazing to be in their bodies. It’s as if they really are in a permanent state of orgasm.


But is this really something all women can experience? I don’t think I’m built for it. I’m tense and awkward in my body, which tends to be exacerbated in sexual situations. A kundalini awakening is not in the cards for me.


Yet a little voice inside me says that I need to try — that the world isn’t so unfair that some women can have this and some can’t. This voice believes we’re all meant to be vibrant, fully alive, and orgasmic by the deepest definition. I sign up for an “Intro to OM” class the next time I’m in San Francisco.


During the day-long seminar, certified OM trainers explain the philosophy of the practice. Orgasm, they say, is the activation of the involuntary: the swelling of a woman’s lips as she gets aroused, the alertness of her nipples as her breasts are caressed, the pulsing of her pussy as it receives attention. To experience orgasm in its richest state, we first must recognize these signs of orgasm and realize we’re already there.


Our culture, they continue, follows the male model of orgasm that behaves like a cliff. It is linear and straightforward, with a clear beginning and end. Female orgasm, as well as the broader feminine energy, are like a rollercoaster instead. I’m not so sure about the gender stereotypes, but the thought of a roller coaster orgasm deeply entrances me. My pelvis begins to throb as I think about riding the ebbs and flows, screaming for my life as I go down, then back up, then down again, in a circle, back to the beginning, only to begin once more.


After lunch, the time comes to watch an OM demonstration. The room grows silent as one of the instructors, a pretty blond woman who appears to be in her 30s, takes off her pants and underwear, lies down on the table, and butterflies her legs out to reveal a flushed pink vulva underneath a patch of blonde pubic hair. The other instructor starts with the “noticing” step, where she describes what she sees in neutral terms: “The labia are swelling, and I see a bit of lubrication glistening on them.”


Next comes the actual stroking: She puts on a glove, dips a finger in lube, and places her thumb at the entrance to her OM partner’s vagina. She then gently lifts the hood of the clitoris to reveal a shiny pink bud and slowly places a finger down directly on it.


I shiver as I imagine what it would be like for someone to touch such a vulnerable part of me. I’ve never been touched with my clitoral hood back. When I’ve tried myself, it’s been so sensitive it’s almost painful. Yet the way this woman does it — “as softly as you’d touch your eyeball,” she says — awakens a deep longing in me: a longing to be seen, a longing to be known. A longing for someone to masterfully handle the center of my sexual energy, the connection to all other nerves of my body.


She barely strokes at all, just ever so slightly moving her finger up and down on one side of her partner’s clitoris. Subtle as it is, it seems to have a powerful impact. “Oh oh oh ohhhhh oh OH ohhhhhh,” the strokee, as they call it, repeats for the entirety of the session, raising and drawing out her voice as she rides the highest peaks of the roller coaster. I see her fingers and toes quiver with pleasure, yet the rest of her body stays perfectly still, as if she’s found the perfect place and could not stand to move even an inch away.


The inner lips of her vulva spread open wide as she sinks into the ecstatic sensations. They periodically shut closed and open again like butterfly wings as her sultry moans pick up, getting wilder with each contraction. As I become lost in her voice, I begin to feel my own pussy clench and release along with hers, as if I’m sharing her orgasm. A voice deep inside me that I wasn’t even aware of — perhaps the voice that led me to that workshop — seems to say, “This is how it is. Of course. This is what you were designed to do.” I marvel at the thought: My body was designed for endless orgasm. How criminal that we have been deprived of this.


When the stroker wraps up the demo by pressing on her partner’s vulva and wiping off her fluids with a towel, the strokee stands up with a beam on her face, bursting with energy, in a way a woman only can after she’s had a delicious orgasm. I’m still dripping wet and breathless as we go around and share our reactions. All I can get out is, “I felt what she was feeling.”


After the class wraps up, the students mingle over tea and chocolate. I still feel my pussy throbbing, a throbbing that spreads throughout my stomach and hips and thighs. I wonder if the men can feel it as they talk to me. I am desperate to try this for myself with anyone, everyone. To activate my involuntary. To lose control.


When a cute guy from the class named Kevin starts talking to me, I can feel the orgasm in me expanding. My breath picks up, and I nervously tap my foot. He has wavy hair, big, wise eyes, and a serious but kind face. When he asks “Do you want to OM?” I immediately say “yes.”


Then, to my surprise, another guy from the class, Mike, asks me the same question. I tell him I already have plans for the night, so we decide he’ll come to my place for an OM tomorrow morning. I love that two strangers are about to pleasure me. I love that I can be open about the fact that one is not enough. I am ravenous. I am insatiable. I am a slut, and that’s a beautiful thing.


Once Kevin and I start to nail down the logistics, things get fuzzier. He insists I wouldn’t be comfortable in his apartment; it’s a mess. Mine is an hour away. So, we get creative: He uses an app that lets you rent office space temporarily. We stop by Walgreens to get lube and towels and Uber to the office while we talk about our love lives and careers. He tells me he admires my work. He’s sweet, the sensitive type, which I suppose OM attracts.


When we arrive at the office building, the security guard is not aware of this app or the appointment we made. “We’re just trying to get some work done,” Kevin repeats as I retreat to the background, checking my phone to distract myself from the embarrassment of the situation. Once the guard finally lets us in, he insists on standing right outside the room. I can’t imagine he thinks we’re actually working.


Kevin takes three pillows off the couch to set up the OM “nest” for me — a pillow under my head and one underneath each of my spread legs. Then, the moment of truth: I take a deep breath and remove my pants and then my underwear. He’s sitting up by my face, so he can’t see too much yet. “Can we just stay here and talk for a second?” I ask.


“I’d like that. I’m feeling nervous.”


“Me too.” We look into each other’s eyes, take another deep breath together, and laugh off the nerves. To get more comfortable with each other, we decide to tell each other the stories of our first orgasms with partners. I feel so close to him as we speak. I tell him I’m ready.


He schooches down to sit next to my lower body and puts his left leg over me in a way that makes me feel safe and secure and held. He dips his finger in the lube — we’ve decided to go glove-less at our own risk — and tells me so that I’m not surprised, “I’m going to touch your pussy now.”


It’s hot to hear him say it. I know this is supposed to be more of a spiritual practice than a sexual one, but I’m attracted to him, and he’s turning me on. It seems he feels the same way. “I know I’m supposed to describe your pussy in neutral terms, but I’m going to tell you I like it,” he says. What rebels we are.


I gasp as I feel his thumb enter me and moan as he ever so lightly begins stroking my clit, a bit nervous that the security guard outside can hear us. The sensation isn’t painful like I feared. It’s just superlatively intense, superlatively intimate. My nerves fade as he strokes with increasing pressure. I’m starting to relax, but I’m afraid that by the time I get comfortable, my 13 minutes will be up. “Can you turn off the timer?” I ask.


“I was thinking the same thing.” He gets his phone to switch it off. Rebels, indeed.


Now, it’s just me and him, exploring this crazy new world together. My clit swells up to meet his finger. My wetness invites his thumb further in. It’s like a dance that we’re doing, nothing in this world but his finger and my pussy. I feel my sexual energy, once buried deep beneath my skin, expand out to the surface. I am sharing the most inner, sacred, fiery part of me with him. A part that has not felt safe to come out before.


It feels as if my clit and the pleasure he’s delivering to it have doubled in volume. I’m on a cloud, and everything is perfect with the world. Is this the orgasm state? I feel like I may be building toward an actual climax. My pussy gets tight around his finger. He senses it and tries to encourage me. “You’re doing great,” he says. “Just relax.”


But before we get much further, the security guard starts knocking. We drop back to Earth from the cloud. It’s painful when he removes his finger from me, the finger that so seems to belong there, that I want there forever and ever. We smile at each other as he slowly withdraws his thumb and carefully moves his leg out from over me. I feel high as a kite. We hastily throw the pillows on the couch. I get dressed and we stumble out.


I hope the security guard doesn’t notice how flushed and glowing I am. I wonder if I look like the women I met at that event.


I have a friend’s birthday party to get to in an hour, and Kevin asks if he can walk me there. As we stroll down Market Street, we tell each other things we’ve never told anyone before: my strangest sexual fantasies, his biggest insecurities, what it was like for him to stare into my pussy for who knows how long.


“I was getting ready to cover my face,” he said. “I felt a build-up.”




“Yeah. I think you hold yourself back.”


We part ways with a hug, agreeing to remain good friends.


After the party, I return back to my place to clean and pack up. I’m leaving town the next morning and have an overwhelming amount of work to do, but the energy emanating from my pussy helps me stay up all night, listening to a talk about female sexuality. In it, a researcher says almost the exact things I heard in the OM class: “We’ve been operating off a limiting, patriarchal definition of orgasm. Women’s bodies have long been capable of far more than most people can conceive of.” I start pulsing again with that inner recognition, that sacred knowing.


Mike comes over the next morning and we get right down to business. I don’t have the same emotional connection with him that I do with Kevin, so it’s more awkward — that is, until he actually begins stroking me. Once again, I relax into his finger, my breath picking up, my hips slightly rising and falling on their own accord. My body leaning into its own pleasure without my mind directing it.


Afterward, he offers to drive me to the airport. Oh, how fun it is to have men waiting on me, doing me favors just because I’ve let them please me. Once again, I feel lifted up to a higher dimension and completely uninhibited. We discuss everything from sex to politics during the car ride.


On the plane to New York, I get wetter and wetter remembering the heat radiating from that women’s pussy to mine during the demo. That ancient undulation of the feminine that my body understands, even if I can’t wrap my mind around it.


Over the following days, I’m struck with raging horniness while I work. I abandon my computer every few hours to sit on the floor, hold a mirror up to my pussy, lift the hood up, and touch that divine hidden place. I stroke myself through several climaxes, but even when they’re over, even when I’m out and about, that bottomless pit of desire in me cries out. Perhaps this is life in the orgasm state.


Whatever has happened, I’m opened. I’m awakened. I’m alive. But I’m not finished.


Stay tuned for Orgasmic Meditation Part 2.