1.2 How To OM
Why do we fuck?
I reminded myself that in each of our cells are these pseudo-intelligent strands of protein called “genes”. These microscopic slave drivers are responsible for all our behaviors and urges. That we smell and taste, love and fear is all to serve their agenda of endless replication. We exist not for ourselves, but as a vehicle of our genes’ immortality.
And what do we get for all this hard work?
Five to eight seconds of pleasurable contraction.
“When people think of Orgasm, they think of Climax,” the teacher said.
Her name was Nicole Daedone. She was much taller and blonder in person. Nicole was the founder of OneTaste. I had watched her TED Talk over thirty times. Now, she was sitting right in front of me on a barstool-height chair, so close that she could stab me with her stiletto heel.
“Orgasm,” she continued, “is a great fire. And climax is an ember that shoots off of that fire.” She tilted her head and smiled. “Hey that's pretty good... Hannah! Write that one down!”
In the back of the classroom, a much smaller auburn-haired woman nodded and typed into her phone. There were four other staff members there, all wearing grey t-shirts with words, ‘Powered by Orgasm’ in black.
The How to OM class was held in a community center in Alphabet City. The room was long and narrow with a single pane window on the far end. There was a thick grey blanket taped over it, I assume to stop the draft. I was shivering. It was the first of December. I should have worn a sweater or something.
There were thirty students in all, seated in two rows. We were a complete cross section of middle-class New York; intellectuals in pea coats, burners in sustainably-made parkas. The Asian guy wearing a black Stetson sat just behind me. A hyper-flexible contortionist woman chose to sit cross-legged on the floor instead of one of the provided chairs. When she leaned forward her breasts tumbled over her shins. Before the day was over, half of the people in this room would have their pants off. But right now our eyes were glued on the teacher.
“Most of the world uses the male definition for orgasm,” she continued. She drew a line in the air sloping up, followed by a quick drop off. “That works for the male mind, because it works for the male body. We want to introduce the female definition of Orgasm.” She drew a wavy up and down curve. “It’s more unpredictable. Like women.”
A couple of people chuckled.
Nicole had an unusual cadence when she spoke, pausing and re-routing sentences as if reading off of a fast-action teleprompter. She sat with her spine perfectly straight and still, but her eyes and hands animated. Every so often she’d uncross and recross her legs, revealing an isosceles of white panties under her silver-sequined skirt.
“Okay, let’s do check-ins!” Nicole said. She pointed to the first person in the back row of students. “What brought you here today?”
The first student to answer was preppy-looking guy in a blazer and scarf. “I’m not really sure why I’m here,” he said. “I guess I just want to learn the OM thing.”
“Thank you,” Nicole said.
The next student down the line was a fair-skinned woman with crystal jewelry and henna tattoos on her hands. She said something about source energy guiding her to this class to connect with the divine feminine. The preppy guy next to her groaned and crossed his arms.
“Thank you,” Nicole said.
A bearded hipster guy checked in. “I just want to get over my…”
“Hold on,” Nicole interrupted. “No ‘just’. The word ‘just’ negates the importance of whatever comes after it. And don’t you ever negate your desire. Speak in the affirmative. Try again.”
“Uh, okay. I… want...um, to be able to satisfy my wife in bed.”
“Thank you,” Nicole said.
The hipster man’s hipster wife checked in. She wore his green over-sized flannel. “I want to feel something,” she said. “I don’t feel anything down there, you know…”
“In your pussy?” Nicole said.
“Ohh I don’t like that word,” said the hipster woman.
“There’s a reason we use charged words like ‘pussy’ and ‘cock’,” Nicole said. “Most of the world is trying to reduce charge. We don’t. The truth carries the most sensation.”
“Um okay, I want to feel something in my… pussy.”
“Thank you,” Nicole said.
That’s what she said to end every interaction. To some students that’s all she said. To others she entered a dialogue that resembled impromptu therapy. I didn’t understand the point of all of this. At this rate, ‘check ins’ was going to take all damn day.
“I w-w-want to b-be a m-m-master stroker,” said the Asian guy with the cowboy hat.
“You can have that,” Nicole said. “Thank you.”
I didn’t know what I was doing here. Guys like Roger and Brad never attended workshops. I had spent all this time and money on improving myself over the last year and what did I have to show for it? More anxiety. More problems. Maybe all of this self-help shit was a scam.
Maybe status and well-being were predetermined at birth. Maybe everyone ultimately reverts to their place in the dominance hierarchy. Maybe that’s why I had erectile dysfunction. I could fool girls like Lisa to like me for a moment, but my own body reminded me that they are out of my league.
Maybe that’s why people always talked over me and and didn’t treat me with respect. Even my roommate Brad, seemed to go out of his way to fuck with me. Just last night he tried to make a power play on me. I had a date over as I walked her out of our apartment, he barged out of the bathroom naked and flexing. He said he didn’t hear us, but I know he did it to fuck with me. I was so angry. But anger is not a productive emotion so I decided not to say anything.
Maybe this is the natural order of things. I’m just so fucking tired of it all.
“Hi are you here with us?”
I looked up to see Nicole smiling at me. She rocked her stiletto heel on the rung of her chair. It was my turn to answer.
“Oh, well, um, uh, I’m here because anything to do with sex is interesting…” my voice trailed off. My calves clenched. There was a lump in my throat.
Nicole’s attention turned to the next student leaving cold draft in its wake. The tip of her tongue reached the back of her teeth as if to say ‘thank...’
“I want to connect with people better!” I spat out.
Nicole flashed a smile that lit up the room. Her body turned to face me again. Her light brown eyes squinted while getting bigger in the way that only the photogenic know how to do.
“I know why you don’t connect with people. You only stay in this tonal range,” she said holding her palms six inches apart. “It’s a nice range, but you’re denying everyone the full spectrum.” She spread her palms to full wingspan and her smile got bigger and brighter. The lump in my throat dropped to my stomach.
“Uhm…”
“You see, you’re trying to play ‘super cute frat boy’ who says everything is ‘cool’ all the time. But everything isn’t cool with you all the time. You’re not a cool frat boy... You’re a dark dangerous man.”
“Uh…” My femurs began to tremble. I clenched them still.
“Is this okay, are you dying?” She squinted and lowered her head towards me.
I didn't understand the question but I shook my head no. She nodded and continued.
“You’re trying to be nice and be liked when what you really want to say is ‘Move bitch or I’ll cut your throat!’” she said miming a shank.
The class laughed.
I was blinking more than usual. The room seemed brighter. They must have turned on the overhead lights. My calves unclenched and my toes wiggled in argyle-patterned wool. I exhaled.
I made sure to inflect my voice and said “I think I get what you’re saying…”
“There he is! That was a quick turnaround!” Nicole grinned and turned to the rest of the class. “Do you feel the difference in him?”
Affirmative female sounds came from the audience. I didn’t get why they were all celebrating. I didn’t do anything differently except inflect my tone of voice. Nicole let the rest of the class check in ending with the busty contortionist sitting on the floor.
But I did feel different. I felt solid and relaxed. I couldn’t remember what I was just thinking about. Maybe it was just placebo. Maybe it didn’t matter.
I wiggled my toes in my socks. They sloshed around in sweat.
The highlight of the class was the live demonstration.
"Tightness in my chest!" a voice yelled from the back of the room.
"Heat in my head!"
"My pussy is wet!"
I stood on one leg on a creaky plastic folding chair too afraid to put my other foot down for the noise it might make. Too afraid to even breathe lest I disrupt whatever it was that was making the air so thick. I leaned over, trembling, to get a good look. I needed to see the stroking technique of the Nicole Daedone.
"Rumbling in my stomach!"
"Sweat on my forehead!"
It was one p.m. We were at the midway point of the class. Nicole was stroking the upper left hand quadrant of the clitoris of the auburn-haired woman who lay spread-eagle on a white sheet on a massage table. Her name was Hannah and her bare vagina, I mean, pussy, was pointed directly at the center of the class.
"Rapid heartbeat!"
"Tingly balls!"
People kept shouting out things they were feeling. Before the demonstration started, Nicole said this is called ‘Sharing Frames.’
“A Frame is a sensory snapshot of something you’re feeling,” she had said. “Naming the feeling and body part will keep you in your body when the sensation gets high and you want to check out. It also gives feedback to Hannah on the table. It lets her know you feel her orgasm.”
As if watching a woman coming could make you feel things. Yeah, whatever. Yet, it seemed like everyone in the room was shouting something. I felt as if I was in one of those improv mystery theater shows where they planted actors in the audience, only everyone was an actor except me.
"Chills down my neck!"
"Swelling in my cock!"
I didn't feel anything, did I? I mean, my knee was trembling, but that was just because I was balancing on one leg. My stomach was feeling butterflies, but I could attribute that to only having butter coffee for breakfast. Sweaty palms? They probably cranked up the heat. Yes, it was hot wasn't it? I felt light-headed too. That must have been from the altitude. I was standing on a chair.
“I’m bringing her up now,” Nicole said. Her fingertip stroked quickly. Hannah’s moans got faster and higher pitched. Her big toes began to wiggle.
“Tingles in my spine!” said the henna-tattooed woman.
“Electricity in my thighs!” said the busty contortionist lady.
“Elec-ting-tingle-uh-shudders in my spine too!” the cowboy stammered.
It didn’t seem like Nicole was doing anything special. She went through the same steps that were listed in Tim Ferriss’s book.
“Now I’m bringing her down,” Nicole said. She made slower strokes with the pad of her finger. “Ooooh yeah, uh-huh. Can you feel that?”
Head nods all around. I felt dizzy. Nicole wiped the lube off of Hannah’s nether region and helped her sit up.
“Now look at how Hannah’s face has changed,” Nicole said. Hannah’s eyelids were darker, her lips fuller, and her cheeks more rosy. “That’s the orgasm mask. It’s like the pregnancy mask, but prettier. Makeup was designed to replicate a woman in orgasm: flushed cheeks, red lips, darkened eyelids.”
More affirmative sounds came from both genders in the audience.
Everyone shared more Frames. Hannah put her pants back on. Sergio told the class that we have a ninety minute break for lunch.
I finally put my right foot down on the chair. I was completely off balance.
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Disclaimer:
All the events of this book are true, as I experienced them; albeit filtered through an imperfect memory and quickly scribbled notes.
Most characters are fictionalized— Names and descriptions have been changed, and many characters have been composited, both to protect identities and make the story more readable.
If you think you recognize someone in the book, think again.