0 She scrunched her jeans down to the ankles.
She scrunched her jeans down to her ankles.
Hannah had a different kind of grace. The bones of her rounded back protruded through bare skin as she hopped on one leg to get her pant past her heel. Now she was naked. Afternoon sun illuminated the translucent ends of her auburn hair.
Even though she was only five-foot-two and six years older than me, it was hard to feel like anything but a child in her presence. Being twenty-five made me an adult out in the ‘real world’. But here, in the Wysiati, I was one of the kids. Her kid. The fact that I was sitting on her elevated bed and piddling my feet only added to the dynamic.
“So let me get this straight,” she said while looking through her dresser drawers. “The bitches won’t leave you alone, and that’s freaking you out, huh?”
I shrugged. She smirked. She began yanking clothes from the drawers. In moments, the carpeted floor was covered with her designer dresses, tops, and yoga attire.
This was what most of our coaching sessions looked like. Last month I earned the coveted position of being Hannah’s New York mentee. All the other ‘kids’ were jealous, some more obviously than others.
She turned to her closet so that she faced me full frontal for a moment. I tensed. She didn’t look at me directly but had a grin on her face. I knew that she knew that I was trying not to look at her breasts. This had to be a test. But I couldn’t tell if passing the test meant looking, or not looking.
I had been practicing Orgasmic Meditation for eight months. Orgasmic Meditation, abbreviated as ‘OM’, pronounced ‘ohm’, like the Sanskrit symbol of cosmic energy or the unit of measurement for electrical resistance, was a partnered practice where a man stroked a woman’s clitoris in a prescribed fashion for fifteen minutes.
In this time I’d seen and stroked hundreds of women’s genitals-- ‘Pussy’, as was the officially sanctioned vernacular. What lay below a woman’s waist was no longer mysterious to me. Many of the women I had met that year asked me to touch their vulvas before telling me their names. But since women kept their tops on during OM, I could still wonder about their breasts; The degree of curvature in the underboob and overboob, the shape and shade of their nipples.
Hannah’s nipples were shaped like rivets on denim, but bigger and flesh-colored. They pointed slightly upwards matching the angle of her nose.
“This will work,” she said, holding up a black dress from a hanger. I glanced at her rivets before she clothed herself.
“I have to go in a minute, so let me just tell you what I see,” Hannah said. She hunched over to rummage through a pile of shoes at the bottom of her closet. “You’re getting a lot of ass right now, right?”
“Um, I guess.”
“And it was fun at first, but now you’re getting diminishing returns on pleasure.”
“Got it.” Hannah rose from the shoe pile holding two matching pumps. She squeezed them on her size four feet. “You know, I was thinking about you last night…”
My heart fluttered.
“I was thinking about how far you’ve come, considering where you came from.” Hannah moved over to her makeup mirror. “You have a lot of Orgasm now. So you’re like a magnet for women who want Orgasm.”
Orgasm, to most people, was an event of involuntary contractions causing some seconds of euphoria. But to me, that word had come to mean so much more.
“These women aren’t willing to do the work to have their own Orgasm. So they are trying to steal yours. They think you are the Orgasm. They are trying to claim you.” Hannah leaned into her vanity and to touch up her eyelashes. “But you are not the Orgasm, Ruwan. You’re just standing in front of the doorway to the Orgasm.”
She adjusted her hair. Then for the first time this afternoon she turned to look at me. Warmth filled my insides. Something about her attention always felt so good.
“Listen to me Ruwan. This is something you always need to remember. Women are going to try to use you as a backdoor way to get Orgasm for free. They will try to marry you. They will try to get pregnant by you. They will suck you dry if you let them. But you must never let them. You can date, you can have Makeouts, but always guide them to walk through the front door themselves. You are not the Orgasm. You’re just a messenger of the Orgasm. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
I would look back at this conversation many times. Over the following year I’d replay it each time my sense of reality jerked forwards and back again. I would consider all the decisions that I made that led me to this point and the consequences that led thereafter.
But in this moment I questioned nothing.
I had no fears or doubts.
For in this moment I was plugged into a power much greater than myself.
“Thank you Hannah.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome Ruwan. You’re one of the good ones.”
Hannah winked at me with both eyes, because she couldn’t do it with one. She about-faced and called her driver in her signature baby voice,
“Janey! I ready to go downtown and make some money!”
»Next chapter: 1.1 “Come to the Meetup on Female Orgasm”
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