Time To Blossom Again

My father said: “Love-making is an art form.” My curiosity about what goes on between Ken and Barbie has been persistent and riveting. No longer playing with dolls in the eighth grade, I asked Nancy in the locker room how to kiss because she already was, and I wasn’t. She showed me how to kiss my hand. It really is an internal process before it becomes an external activity/shared joy.

Since I was twelve, I’ve had many peak moments writing privately in my diary. At eighteen I was more corporate than ever after. When alone having removed all facades, I poured out the voice screaming inside, buried under all responsibilities and expectations. If I wrote long enough, without interruption, the endorphins kicked up as they had during my college runs. Once all circuits were realigned, calm advice and encouraging support flowed through me in poetry.

In my early twenties I was completely stuck in my head. Any effort to experience love-making as a smooth reality, cubist expression, or abstract interpretation failed because I was thinking too much. I didn’t begin to get a glimpse of what a woman’s orgasm was until my early thirties. At that time an astrologer told me my chart is all about the deeper mysteries of sex and I should be writing about it as I educate myself.

Once I started having physical orgasms, I became obsessed with them. They re-calibrated my energy, attitude, and emotion. Even if the experience was clumsy or uncomfortable, I walked away feeling more integrated. What I experienced I knew I had to describe for others. In that most desired embrace, I could hear the ticker tape translating touch into words.

Even being so cerebral, I did learn to let my guard down, untie my inhibitions, expose my most tender reaches, and allow myself to scale the mountain with bare hands. Once on top of that peak, I slowly learned to take in every inch of perspective and profound nature the panoramic view provided. I published my first book in 2013 about my quest for The Big O, my growing appreciation for its healing benefits, and awareness of what gets in the way of sensual satisfaction.

I once heard if a couple can keep a woman on the orgasmic plateau for four hours, that at any other time during that week, one sniff of his scent, hearing his voice, looking at his scribble or sketch, any sense of him automatically lifts her back into the orgasmic plateau and she'll be vibrating again. To me, that seemed like an experiment worth underwriting, and a behavior modification program that could alter world history.

Starting March 18^th, I will be blogging about a three-week tele-class called Deliberate Orgasm (DO) put on by Welcomed Consensus. I won’t share the lessons these sexual educators provide, merely how I feel receiving this information and how it is affecting my life.

After working diligently at therapy and healing core wounds that have disturbed me over the years, Spring 2014 has almost sprung. I am about to blossom again. This class is a gift at the right time. Serendipity and synchronicity are assisting the universe in guiding me to life’s greatest gift and most manifested potential. After four years of spending night and day worrying about cancer, I have good years ahead of me to explore emotionally what I’ve previously discovered physically about orgasms.

Let me catch you up, in the past I’ve known exquisite bliss. One man, I knew for ten years, before we became intimate. He knew all the right buttons. He had a god-like talent. Like a laser, he focused in on reading what I needed most and how many orgasms were locked inside needing to come out. He let nothing interrupt him when we were together. With him I had three hours of orgasms. Twelve years later I experienced a younger man with whom I could enjoy five hours at a time. Unfortunately, I couldn’t commit emotionally enough to either man to enjoy my deepest desire in a more continuous manner, thus unable then to prove my earlier stated theory is indeed a realistic possibility.

Those moments when I got very close to that place my imagination had pointed towards, were the ones I lived for the most: tuning out everything but the curiosity and enthusiasm for how big these orgasms could be, for both me and he? In my forties, I believed the final frontier was a woman’s body. Yet still, overwhelmingly the media portrays feminine sexual satisfaction as the loving acceptance for a man needing medicine to continue “acting” like a boy.

Erica Jong wrote in The Devil At Large, women who write about sex either don’t live very long or are banished from all modern acceptable society. It is so worth the risk. During this class I will re-enter a part of my life that has been barren for 76 weeks. Will you join me?

A year ago while discussing sex with my mother, she said after reading my book, if given the chance to do life over, she’d choose mine. She still adores my dad, yet there are inner hungers each woman has that must be addressed in life. I hope in these next three weeks I’ll be able to write about sex in supreme and sublime enough terms that will lift it out of the debauchery and shame so many still feel in 2014.

After reawakening from long months of sorrow and fear, if the universe conspires, I will share how raw flesh, when compatibly united, needs no electricity or gas to heat up and become digestible? I can describe slow moments of anticipation when hair-by-hair, each follicle comes to stand at attention, waiting for the hands that play me like a Stradivarius? Eight specific blogs will describe what flows through me when I can release desperation and become delight.