The quest for clitoral enlightenment
After lunch, we were treated to a live OM demonstration for dessert. Our chairs were wrapped around an elevated rollaway bed, upon which Velma lay with her legs butterflied open to completely expose her vagina. Tad stood over her, snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves, and stuck his finger in cold lubrication. He looked over her “pussy” and, abiding by proper OM procedure, gave it three descriptions: “Your outer labia is a rose pink. Your clitoris is glistening. Your vestibular bulbs are blushing.”
I felt like a child who had just broken into my parents’ 1980s bush-vag pornos -- except here, watching wasn’t enough. One by one, Tad called our names and we had to immediately recite sensations in our body.
“My vagina is engorged,” one grey-haired mom announced.
“My cock is twitching,” another balding dad chimed in.
“Um. My toe hurts?” I added.
During a Q&A session following the erotic demonstration, I asked Tad what he was getting out of OM. The men stay fully clothed. Their only duty is to lightly stroke a clitoris up and down for 15 minutes. His answer was basically that he gets to touch a lot of vaginas.
I asked Velma the difference between OM and foreplay.
“There’s no expectation for anything more,” she said.
“But isn’t that the point of having your clitoris stroked? To warm you up for more?”
“You just have to experience it to understand,” she told me. “There are no words to describe it.”
Maybe I was being narrow-minded. What if OM was exactly how it was described on the website, in the books, and by the participants who invested thousands of dollars in the community? What if the moment those cold, lubed vinyl gloves brushed my clitoris, tears flowed down my eyes and changed my life forever?
There was only one way to find out.
As I lay in my nest, my poor partner -- who I’m completely certain had never touched a clitoris in his life -- awkwardly poked my lady parts as Tad and Velma stood over his shoulders to give him more detailed instructions. The whole place felt more like a legal brothel for the sexually inexperienced, masked with a zen façade that unfairly drags yoga and meditation through the mud. Its spiritual awakening is the Santa Claus, the Jesus, and the lucky penny for gullible believers.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want an orgasm.
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Maggie Young is a Navy veteran, Berkeley graduate, author of Just Another Number, and sex-positive feminist who will never again pay an entry fee to get her clitoris stroked. Keep up with her at The Maggie Young.