Please note: This piece discusses my personal sexuality and sex life. Family members and others who don’t want to read about that stuff, please don’t read this.
So blog reader sav was kind enough to send me this article, which she thought — rightly so — I would find fascinating.
It’s a piece in the New York Times, titled The Pleasure Principle, about a new age commune in San Francisco, One Taste, dedicated to female sexuality… including a form of female- centered group spiritual practice called “deliberate orgasm” or “orgasmic meditation.”
I realize that this article should be fertile ground for me. I should be able to gas on for days about the unsettling connection between woo spirituality and the sex- positive movement. Or about the assumption of heterosexuality in this particular practice. Or, indeed, about the apparent inability of the New York Times to write anything at all about sex without snickering. I may yet do one or all of these things.
But at the moment, I’m finding that I just can’t get past this sentence:
At 7 a.m. each day, as the rest of America is eating Cheerios or trying to face gridlock without hyperventilating, about a dozen women, naked from the waist down, lie with eyes closed in a velvet- curtained room, while clothed men huddle over them, stroking them in a ritual known as orgasmic meditation — “OMing,” for short.
Pertinent phrase: “At 7 a.m.”
At 7 a.m.?
AT 7 A.M.?!?!?
Are you fucking kidding me?
At 7 a.m., Ingrid can barely drag me out of bed to help medicate the cat. At 7 a.m., I’ve had maybe five or six hours of sleep. On a good night. On a less good night, I’ve had three or four. And even if I’ve been a good girl and gotten to bed at a reasonable hour instead of staying up ’til two writing porn, I am never, ever, ever interested in sex at seven in the morning. I am barely interested in life at seven in the morning. I think the only times I’ve ever had sex at seven in the morning have been times when I’ve been up all night. And while a seven a.m. bonk can be a lovely thing at the end of an all- nighter or an acid trip… well, sadly or blessedly, my days of all- nighters and acid trips are now behind me.
I won’t deny that the thought of being in a room with a dozen other women, with a dozen men fondling our genitals and focusing devotedly on our arousal and orgasm, does have a certain appeal. But the thought of it happening at seven in the morning fills me with unholy dread. And the thought of it happening at seven in the morning every day makes me want to run screaming into the night. The beautiful, beautiful night. More than anything else in this article (which, admittedly, was about as trustworthy as anything else the Times writes about sex, which is to say not very much at all), this single fact has convinced me that this organization is, to put it mildly, not for me.
They have got to be fucking kidding.