How To Tell Your Parents You're an OM Slut

by Bez Maxwell  Sep 30, 2013

Talking to your kids about sex can be a challenge—talking to your parents about it can be even worse.

I’m a 35-year-old woman. I’ve got a job and I'm a decade past a college degree. I have children of my own. That makes me a certified adult, for God’s sake—so why was this so hard?

My dad was coming to visit. And it was not ideal timing.

Step Number One: Start a career based on female orgasm994761_10152931814560494_266102253_n

I am the editor of Orgasm Daily. It's a recent career change. In that past year I've become devoted to teaching about, living, and supporting others in having more orgasm—through sex, through OM, and through going into the involuntary in every aspect of life. I do this practice called Orgasmic Meditation. Sure, OM thrives inside of a very strictly adhered to container. Sure, OM is not sex. Sure, teaching about sex is a valid profession. But still. I couldn't think of any circumstance in which I would feel cozy and comfortable explaining to my father that several men a day stroke my clitoris for 15 minutes, regardless of the goal.

But back to my dad's visit.

Step Number Two: Let female orgasm turn your life into a well-lubricated mess

I was in the middle of a divorce that was getting less-than-friendly. I had just learned that I was stepping up into leading the Santa Cruz TurnON community and there was much to do in the realm of orgasm. I was in the middle of moving and squatting with a friend in a yurt on her property. I had nowhere to decently host my father except a canvas tent that had no roof and a garbage can full of WAY too many vinyl gloves. How do you explain all those vinyl gloves to the non-OMing parent? And the jars of lube that inevitably migrate to the top of the refrigerator with the loose change and reusable paper bags? How do you put into context the casual conversations containing words like “introitus” and “downstroke”? Then men and women parading over armed with armfuls of pillows?

He was essentially walking into orgasmic chaos. And we hadn't seen each other in two years.

Step Number Three: Systematically hide who you are for several years from your parents

I admit, I tried to put my father up in a hotel for the week—as if I could get him away from the unexplainable but well-lubricated mess that had become my life. I’ve devoted myself to a life powered by orgasm and dictated by desire. That means some of my decisions... don't quite make sense in the way most Americans define logic. How could a life devoted to the mystery of female orgasm translate to not only the average human male—but to my own father? The chasm between “Friday night football” and “fingernail deep” (and no further) seemed too vast to cross.

But Dad didn’t want to be quarantined in a hotel. He actually wanted to see ME—not the picket fence and plastic smile version that I was trying to paper over my Facebook-verified slutdom.

Many of us put up barriers in our childhood or adolescence, as if to spare the world from who we truly are. I was no different. I’m pretty outlandish when it comes to most things, but even I have a veneer that projects an image of at least some decency and propriety—especially around my family. The veneer got thicker when my mom died 10 years ago. It’s easier to pretend that everything is okay (even when it's not) than to feel actual feelings for God’s sake. Easier to just get our visits over with so we can feel like decent people who have checked the “hang with family” box and then get back to our normal and sordid life.

Step Number Four: Decide that you would rather tell the truth than be safe or understood

This time, I didn’t want to do it. I couldn’t in fact. I had to come clean.

There’s something about the OM practice and the limbic connection within our community that makes lying and concealing downright awful. It gets to the point where I start telling the truth not because the other person needs to hear it, but just because it feels worse to keep the truth in and hold myself back than to weather the fallout of dropping the t-bomb on an unsuspecting relative.

So I decided that to come fully clean with dear old dad and tell him everything. About OM. About how I lead TurnON. About my community. About my passion for a life powered by orgasm. About how men stroke my clit for 15 minutes and then leave. About how I’m pitched toward my God-given slutdom at full force and I hope to encourage other women to do the same.

I decided to let him in.

Step Number Six: Have an existential meltdown

The day he arrived I basically died. Seriously, I had a heart attack and then exploded and then threw up my guts and then burned into a pile of blubbering cinders on a friend’s couch—all before his 1pm flight landed in San Jose airport. I was sure he was going to kill me, sure down to the DNA. I thought he would get back on the plane with some banner flying from his suitcase proclaiming his total disgust and revulsion with me and my life. I thought he might put me in an insane asylum. My body was acting as if the world was about to end.

Now to give my dad a very healthy dose of credit—he’s a pretty awesomely freaky guy himself. He’s the kind of guy who went to his 9 to 5 startup job every morning with a pin under his tie that said, “Just visiting this planet” and would dish out crude and somewhat obscure jokes to any of my unsuspecting friends who were lucky enough to have him answer the phone when they called for me.

Still, his response blew me away.

Step Number Seven: Use your genitals

He pulled up in his rental car and my mouth was dry. I gave him a big hug—still operating underneath the normal veneer. I think my arms were shaking but he didn’t notice. He started talking to me about the business meeting he just came from. I went and got a glass of water from my office and then just blurted out mid-sentence, “Dad, we’re going on a walk. I need to tell you something.” You’d think I was about to tell him I was pregnant (again) or had cancer or something. This was the moment.

I was totally nervous. I was on the verge of tears. I had pictured this interaction several million times as I had died on the couch earlier that day. I pictured myself erupting in a teary, snotty mess of shame. The horror of my sexuality—I’m such a dark and twisted person—I’m so abnormal and weird and can you still love me even though I am a woman who likes sex—?

But then something happened: I thought, “Fuck that.” The truth was, I didn’t have a terminal disease. Instead, I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life. So just like we are taught to in OM, I pushed all that nervousness all out my pussy.

I know, it sounds crazy to write the above sentence in regards to a father daughter conversation. But that’s what I did. Yup, it’s true—I have a clitoris and I use it.

Okay, back to business.

In that moment, I felt my spine lengthen. I dropped the story and just dropped in to the sensation of my body. It was like that Matrix movie moment, when I realized that I could decide how to spin all those sensations. I could come to him as an apologetic, emotional wreck—or I could alchemize my terror and come at him with some really great news about who I am. I could come at him with what we at OneTaste call turn on.

It was amazing.

Step Number Eight: Let the love and support all the way in

My dad LOVED it. Not only did he not kill me or threaten to lock me up for nameless crimes of sexual deviance, he actually supported me and cracked a few pussy jokes while he was at it. He actually told me he was proud that his daughter was a slut. I felt closer to him than I have in years, and the best part was we had bonded around something good—something that was going right.

Working with sex and pussies for a living takes a certain level of guts. We all came here because of sex and most of us travelled into this life out of a pussy—but there is still a cloud of shame and discretion around these two vital aspects of humanity. Talking to my dad about sex and orgasm that day lifted the veil. If your dad can accept your slutdom, than anyone can. And that’s what makes it worth it to talk to your parents—and your kids—about sex: we all have genitals. Keep calm and stroke them, people.