An Open Letter To My Orgasm
T o My Beloved Orgasm,
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, reflecting on the incredible relationship we’ve had and how it has grown and changed over the years. It’s hard to believe that 19 years have passed since you came into my life.
I had already started to experience sexual pleasure — I simply hadn’t made it to that incredible peak. I still remember that electric feeling of my first French kiss, a mess of hands searching and grasping, the excitement of touching over and then under each other’s clothes.
And then you were there.
The first time we met I was 15 years old and my boyfriend’s head was between my legs. I had heard so much about you but I still wasn’t prepared for your arrival. My boyfriend licked and sucked until I was overcome with such force that my hands went tingly and numb and I nearly blacked out.
I remember laying back in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, attempting to catch my breath. I didn’t know what I was in for.
Of course, this would just be the first of our many wild and varied encounters. Sometimes you come around for just a few seconds. Sometimes you are stubbornly shy. I look for you and you remain elusive.
It feels as though I’m chasing you only to watch you disappear around a corner just when I think we’ll finally meet. Why do you do this to me?
But I don’t hold it against you.
If you’ve taught me anything it’s that pleasure can come from so many sources. Sure, there are the usual things — lips, tongues, fingers, cocks, vulvas — but there are so many other objects and sensations to enjoy. A marabou feather traced along my skin. The stinging thwap of leather tails. The hard snap of a cane against my flesh. The soft burn of candle wax. And what about the times when you bypass my vulva entirely and instead show up in the form of thuddy pain brought on with a paddle.
I love how your presence comingles with pain, at first bringing tears and then clearing away to a kind of high I just can’t get with drugs.
I am regularly amazed at all the different ways you choose to appear in my life. I know you love clitoral stimulation but you also come running for my G-spot. Sometimes you combine them both, and you leave me in divine exhaustion. At times it feels like every muscle in my body is seizing, as if I am taking on too much pleasure for one person.
And after all these years, sometimes you still manage to surprise me. I’ll never forget the first time you decided to make a splash. Whoa, it’s like Niagara Falls, a delighted partner told me.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, I discovered how much you love weed. When I am high, you take me higher. Instead of several fleeting visits, you stay around for one long drawn out journey. Now when you hit me with that tidal wave I flow with you, like water rolling underneath the strongest current. I move with your ebb and flow, feeling blissful yet tranquil with the crescendo and crash of each wave.
Just like a person, you contain multitudes. In many ways, it feels like you know me better than I know myself. You always know how much I can handle and what I need.
Although you may not always show up when summoned. You’re like the party guest who shows up an hour late and then sneaks out when no one’s looking. You are a friend who keeps me guessing but always leaves me satisfied.
I have to admit, dear Orgasm, that when you first came into my life, I felt a bit ashamed. What kind of a “good girl” would be so into sex? All my life I had seen depictions of sex as something women had to endure. I was so confused back then. No one had told me it was okay to like sex. So despite feeling ready for it and being as responsible as possible, I still worried that I might be branded a slut.
Thankfully as I have gotten older, I’ve become more critical of the way women’s sexuality is depicted. And you helped me to become a feminist as I had to regularly defy expectations and live my own truth. Not only that, but you helped me to speak up for myself and demand what I deserve.
After all, women are regularly taught to put others’ needs before our own. But you made me realize that a lot of good can come from focusing on myself and what I want.
Your presence has helped me to learn about my own body.
There’s something incredible about having a body part whose sole purpose is to experience sexual pleasure. It wasn’t until I was college-aged that I learned that the clitoris is just the tip of the iceberg, a tiny mound of flesh attached to internal tissue that swells with blood when I’m aroused.
I was shocked to learn that the G-spot is actually just the internal continuation of the clitoris. Who knew that something so small could be so powerful? Oh orgasm, I’m so sorry that I ever felt like you were something that should be hidden and not spoken of.
I know now that in many ways, you hold the keys to my liberation.
That’s why I’m so proud of how you make me feel. As I’ve grown, I’ve learned to embrace everything that you continue to give to me. Sometimes I imagine you as a lifelong friend, a mentor, the cool older girl who seemed to have it all figured out ages before I did.
I think about the first time we’ve met and the ways you’ve been a part of my life since then. It’s like you’ve been whispering in my ear. Relax. Breathe. Give in to the pleasure and enjoy it. How do you feel? Are you having fun? You remind me of how deeply I can feel good. With you I am free.
You don’t care what I look like or how big I am. All I feel is the enormity of your presence and the pure bliss that you bring. In a world where I’m constantly told that I’m too fat to be sexual, you come along like a one-woman marching band, loudly announcing to the world that fatness has no bearing on pleasure.
You transform me from an insecure woman who is too big for this world to a zaftig goddess, bestowing her plentiful gifts upon humanity. You make me feel like people should be kneeling before me, grateful they might taste my divine fruit. When I’m with you, it doesn’t matter what I look like. All that matters is the blood coursing through my veins, like electricity lighting up every last nerve.
Your visits are nearly a spiritual experience. You make me feel like shimmering beams of golden light are shining down on me. Before you leave, it feels as though I am embraced by your energy. I lay back and think of nothing. My mind is empty. I have achieved the kind of clarity and nothingness that I’m told takes years of devoted meditation.
But my mind remains blank. All I know is that I am breathing. Once you have left, I sit up. Still catching my breath, all I can think of are three words that I repeat to myself like a mantra: “I am powerful, I am powerful, I am powerful.”
