Orgasmic Meditation Part 2

A continuation of Orgasmic Meditation Part 1.


While browsing the web one evening, I notice a video about the difference between orgasm and climax. A few years ago, I would not have understood this distinction. But I do now, thanks to my knowledge of orgasmic meditation.


Orgasmic meditation, also known as OM, is a practice with a cult-like following where someone (usually a man) strokes the upper left quadrant of a woman’s clitoris for 13 minutes with no goal. Men say they do it to fine-tune their concentration or empathy or understand women better. Women say they do it to connect with their desires and intuition and learn to receive pleasure.


The year prior, I’d taken an Intro to OM course, where instructors explained that climax is but the last stage of orgasm. While climax involves a discharge of energy that typically signifies the end of a sexual encounter, orgasm builds your energy up and up for as long as you want. While the journey toward climax is like climbing a mountain — a “masculine” quest, they believe — a feminine orgasm is like a roller coaster ride, with many thrilling highs and lows and no beginning or end, only waves and waves of pleasure.


Though I took a shot at OMing with a few fellow students in the class, I’m unsure of whether I’ve reached the “orgasm state” OMers talk about, where a woman’s body goes into an involuntary state. Her lips and labia swell, her chest and cheeks flush, her vaginal muscles contract, and often, ejaculate spurts out of her pussy. I wouldn’t believe it, had I not seen it for myself during a demo in the course. The instructor’s pussy fluttered open and closed like butterfly wings to the rhythm of screams and sighs that conveyed the wild fluctuations of a roll coaster, and I felt her orgasm, too, deep within my loins. And I had a strange feeling that this wasn’t the first time I’d felt it, though I don’t know when else I would have. It was like it was ingrained in my DNA from a time long ago, an ancient feminine wisdom.


The women in the video, Graciela, says she’s spent thousands of hours in the orgasm state. At the end, she shares her email address and invites anyone with questions to contact her. I timidly compose an email. “I have some questions about what you went over in your talk,” it reads. “Would you be willing to talk some time?”


She responds by inviting me to book a zoom chat through her website. I schedule one for the following week.


“I wanted to ask you how to know if you’ve reached the orgasm state,” I tell her. “When I’ve used the OM technique on myself, I sometimes experience vaginal contractions, but it doesn’t feel as amazing or spiritual as people say.”


She laughs. “That is orgasm,” she says. “It’s all orgasm. Orgasm is the activation of the involuntary. When you get aroused or excited and you start to sweat, that’s orgasm. When yor pussy gets wet, that’s orgasm. The reason it’s not feeling amazing to you is that you’re not acknowledging it.”


That’s ridiculous, I think. You can’t just call everything orgasm and then say you’ve orgasmed for thousands of hours. But I also kind of get her point. Orgasm is a subjective sensation, so your subjective assessment of it does affect how you experience it.


Unlike OMers, who consider this clit-stroking technique a partnered practice, Graciela advocates using it on yourself — something I’d already started to do on my own, since my body had been calling out for it so desperately. She uses the term DO as an acronym for “deliberate orgasm,” and she tells me she’ll “do herself” multiple times a day. “If I’m having a stressful day, or if I’ve got to give a talk and I’ve nervous, I just head to the bathroom beforehand and do myself,” she says. “I’m not nervous anymore once I’m in orgasm.”


As I lie in bed that night, I spread my legs open, lift my clitoral hood up with one hand, and gently massage the upper left quadrant of my clitoris with the other. It feels so good to just feel my finger against my clitoris, savoring each caress, not thinking about climaxing — just letting my pussy do what it wants to and go where it’s meant to. Electrical currents hit my pussy again and again. I sigh as I feel my inner lips open and close, discharging energy. Yet I still don’t feel like I’m reaching the elevated state of consciousness others do with this practice.  


I forget about OM until a few months later, when Graciela sends me a followup email. When I hear from her, I’m going through a health crisis, and I have a strange feeling that somehow, orgasm needs to be part of my healing. During our next call, I ask her if she can help me experience the orgasm state. “I could train you,” she says. Before my mind has the chance to respond, my body calls out, “Yes.”  


After another conversation, we plan out five days of orgasm. We’ll rent an Airbnb in New York  City and she’ll spend the whole time training me to do myself, along with other forms of therapy, like sex and relationship coaching. Her husband, Ryan, who teaches alongside her, won’t be able to make it, but he will video-call in a few times.


I arrive hopeful that this will be a chance to turn my life around. The truth is, I’m not just looking for sexual healing. I’m looking to heal my whole self. I want to transform a life of workaholism, attachment to money, and obsession with success into one driven by pleasure and desire.


After Graciela greet me, she lays out the rules for the week. One is that I have to do myself at least three times a day. My eyes grow wide. I get to be insatiable. I get to be decadent. I get to be ridiculously, freakishly sexual. My pussy gets to run the show, and she is demanding. I declare that three times a day will not be enough. Graciela approves. “You can do it as often as you want. It’s good to have big desires.”


But there’s one other rule: I can’t climax. I start to get nervous. If I’m going to be touching my pussy all day, that seems difficult to avoid. But she has a good reason. “I don’t want you to crash,” she says. “I want you to go up and up.” So do I.


During our first coaching session, she has me practice her signature technique: You lube up your finger, place it at the entrance to your vagina, and stroke upward until you’ve reached that upper left quadrant. Once you’ve touched the right spot, she says, your finger should stick there like a magnet. Then, you rub up and down in a short line, moving your finger to different times around the clock of your clit if the sensation begins to dull. Every orgasm has peaks and troughs, she explains, and you can “peak yourself” by picking up the pace or pressing harder. You can also create “connections,” where you stroke other parts of your body, like your breasts, at the same time to experience orgasm throughout your whole body.


She looks at my pussy as I try it out and describes it like you do in the beginning of an OM. “Your labia are already swollen, I see your clitoris peeking out from beneath the hood, and your pussy’s flushed a deep red color,” she says. “I can already see a little bit of ejaculate pooling up at the base of your vagina.” Wow — how is she noticing more than I do? Could I be experiencing more than I realized?


She demonstrates the technique on herself for me, lying on the bed in her dress with her legs spread and her pussy bare. Her clitoris moves up and down with each stroke, and her voice erupts into that familiar “oh ohhh” that I heard at the OM demo, as if it’s a language encoded in our cells. Once again, I feel as if I know exactly how she feels. This tells me I have the capacity to feel it, too.  


Then comes my first assignment: give myself a 10-minute orgasm. So we were just diving right in! I go to my room and follow the procedure she gave me: place my legs, butterflied apart, on two pillows, stroke my pubic hair up and out of the way, and try to focus on the sensations rather than fantasizing. As I approach the end of the 10 minutes, my body is dying to climax. I’m getting annoyed that I have to hold it back. How on Earth is this better?


I complain to Graciela that I’m not feeling orgasmic; I’m just feeling sexually frustrated. She tells me I’m still thinking of it the wrong way: I need to see it as orgasm already.


“Do you think I was experiencing orgasm earlier?”


“Oh, definitely. You were showing all the signs of orgasm.”


My pussy starts pulsing as she says it. That recognition again, as if to say, “Yes, I was.”


The next day, I decide I’ll play along with this whole “everything’s orgasm” thing, even though it seems a bit out there to me. After a communication exercise, I retreat to my room for my first orgasm of the day, for 15 minutes this time, and I make a point to be loud. The same way smiling puts you in a better mood, perhaps I’ll become more aware of my pleasure if I express it.


At first, my voice feels forced, then it seems to pick up on its own, following that same wavering “oh oh ohhh OH” pattern I’ve heard twice before now. That’s when I start to feel it. I stop striving toward climax and just relax where I am. I lift my finger up so that it’s barely touching my pussy at all. My sexual energy rises to meet my finger as I move it ever so slightly. Then, my body starts convulsing underneath my hand. My pussy opens and closes and twitches with wild abandon. It feels like I really am riding a roller coaster, and I can barely hang on. “Ohhh,” I let out a deep moan as I thrash around. It goes on and on until the timer stops and I know it’s been 15 minutes.


“I think I experienced it this time!” I tell Graciela. “I get it now. If you focus on the sensation and affirm it and validate it, it grows.”


“You’re a good student,” she smiles.


The next day, I give myself four 20-minute orgasms, and we take pictures of my pussy before and after each one. I can see Graciela was right: after experiencing a long and luscious orgasm, my labia bloom outward like flowers, my whole pussy swells up, and cum collects in the hole.


I feel high as a kite for the entire day. I begin writing down vivid sexual fantasies I didn’t know I had. I go grocery shopping in a short skirt with no underwear on, relishing the thought that someone might smell the sensuality oozing off me. I smile at everyone and walk with confidence. I’m so focused on how turned on I am, I barely notice my health problems.


On the third day, Graciela strokes me so I can feel how a master does it. I gasp as she brushes my pubic hair aside. “You’re already in orgasm,” she says. “I can see your breasts swelling up and your nipples getting big and red.” I’ve taken to doing our sessions naked; I love to be able to caress my breasts. She strokes around my clitoris, somehow knowing each time a new area is yearning for attention, then just when I cannot take all the pleasure, she says, “I’m going to peak you.” The next strokes are long ones, spanning from the top to the bottom, and as she strokes, my pussy convulses for minutes.


That night, she and Ryan and I talk over Zoom. The theme of the discussion is how I am perfect. I tell them everything from my past that I’m ashamed of, and they help me put a positive spin on it all. We continue for four hours, me crying for a good portion of it.


Afterward, I get an idea: I see if he wants to coach me with her the next day. On the surface, I’ve enjoyed speaking to him and want him involved in my process. But secretly, there’s another motive. I imagine that as a married man in his 50s, it’s his dream come true to see an attractive woman in her 20s with her wide hips opened toward him, her swollen red pussy in plain view, her supple breasts pointing at him as she moans in pleasure and lets him witness her orgasm. It turns me on to think of making him feel like he’s died and gone to heaven.


“Would you like to help Graciela coach me?” I ask innocently. But my intentions are far dirtier. I see a look of excitement and wonderment on his face, but he too tries to hide it. “I don’t see why not,” he says, “if you think it would help.”


The following afternoon, having already enjoyed two 20-minute orgasms, I drape myself languidly over the bed, my long legs hanging over pillows, my pendulous breasts falling up toward my chin, my wavy reddish brown hair pushed to the side so that my whole chest is bare. He stumbles over his words as he gives me feedback, telling me to try stroking slower and softer. My voice undulates as if I’m speaking in tongues as my finger moves around my clit and my other hand runs circles around my milky breasts, my chest heaving as I peak myself, my pussy rhythmically contracting the whole time.


“I can tell you’re thinking about fucking,” he says at one point. I laugh. In his dreams I am. I bet he would love to sink his cock into this juicy pussy, to enter my orgasm. Instead, he just watches in awe as the orgasm goes on and on. I open my legs wider just so he can see how pink my pussy is as it clenches and releases in front of him.


“I think you’ve really got the hang of it,” he tells me after I sit up, my breasts swinging back down over my soft stomach. I smile as I talk to him, not minding that his eyes are gazing admiringly at my rosy nipples.


That night, in my turned-on state, I decide to take my body for a spin; it simply feels too luscious not to hide from the world. I know just where to go: It’s a French rooftop bar with a jacuzzi, and rowdy dancers often jump in topless. When I arrive, I step into the hot tub in nothing but a small black bathing suit bottom covering my curvy butt. I can feel men’s eyes on my full breasts, which swing as I swim from one side to the other then lie back in a seat, my nipples poking up from under the water as I lay my head back. Men swim up and try to initiate conversations, but I’m not interested; I just smile politely and wait for them to swim away before the next guy makes his move. One asks if he can touch my breasts; I humor him and let him touch just one. He caresses it gently like a precious jewel then thanks me and gets out. I can see the huge erection peeking out of his bathing suit.


The next morning, life feels exciting, and when I think about the future, decisions come to me easily. I know exactly what I want. I strut across the city with a newfound confidence. When a woman points out that my dress is tucked into my underwear, leaving my ass hanging out, I don’t get embarrassed; I just laugh.


There is orgasm radiating out of my pussy and all the way out to my fingers and toes, and I finally understand the intuition I had when I first learned about OM. I was right: The potential to lead an orgasmic life was in me. I was in orgasm all along.