I OM. The Story of Amy
by Amy Jones Sep 23, 2013
A woman like me isn’t supposed want this much sex.
A woman like me shouldn't let people know how slutty she is.
A woman like me doesn’t deserve to feel so sexual and ravenous.
A woman like me needs to hide because if I show it they'll never leave.
If I show it, they'll ridicule me, judge me, hate me, blame me and shame me. They will make me change or dismiss me.
A woman like me doesn’t fit the standard of what is hot and good and sexy in a woman. A woman like me is a size 12—or more—who has never fit the right mold of a woman’s body, never had a flat belly, never worn a bikini. But has, for as long as she can remember, felt a flushness, a pulse of life, a throbbing ache move through her no matter how much she tried to turn the volume down.
That ache, I now know, is my orgasm—my power source. But for the longest time, I just wanted to manage it. And the quickest and fastest way I found to do that was food. Nobody said to me at age 7 or 8, “You need to tone down your orgasm little, lady.” But it was in fact what ended up happening.
I was too loud, too dramatic, too mean, not nice enough. I was opinionated and I liked the boys, maybe too much. I snuck around, I got caught, I got yelled at. I laughed in their face. I was easy, I was wild that was wrong. Being a slut, enjoying my body, being free and open was a shameful act. I was outside the lines of what it was to be a proper, decent young woman in the world.
So as the years went on, I lowered the volume. I muffled it with food, with extra weight, with shyness, with a hard exterior shell that very few people ever tried getting past.
Food became my safe haven. I learned early I needed to create a barrier between what I felt inside and how I interfaced with the world. Food became the way I was able to do that. Instead of having a big appetite for life, for men, for sex, I ate as a replacement. If my personality couldn’t be big, then my body would have to be. I ached to be thin, which I thought was the antidote to what I felt. Ached to be like all the other women men chased. A fat girl couldn’t show up as the slutty girl on the dance floor, or make the first move on a guy. There was shame in wanting that much sex. The lust and desire were too much to reveal. I had become so incrementally good over the years at tamping it down that when it wanted to rise it was often stuck behind a wall of reasonable excuses about my body.
“They won’t want me because I’m fat,” became my siren song, my excuse for not having to live into the wildness that I knew was in here. In fact, the excuse of being fat became so validated in my own mind, so key to why I couldn’t have what I wanted, that the wildness was almost forgotten. The reason for the prison had been overshadowed by the prison itself. I thought I was at odds with my body, and I have the body hatred to show it, but what I’ve learned through my 4+ years of OMing is that what’s really at play is a shame about who I am deep down inside.
I believed that if I could just be a size 4, or lose 30 pounds or exercise regularly for god’s sake, or just stop eating carbs then I could control my body and thus be the woman I wanted to be and have what I wanted. The sin of being overweight had overshadowed the sin of being an easy, wild slut. No longer did I address the real thing at play, I was more concerned with the symptoms than the disease. The way in which we teach girls (and boys to a different degree) to mold and hide and keep quiet constrain the exact thing that makes us women: our vivaciousness, our play, our electricity. We all learn to dial down. I learned to scrub myself clean of my expression, to believe that what I wanted was what everyone else had. A straight and narrow, clean and happy life. Sure I liked sex, but I was waiting for the right guy to come along, marry me and then we’d have the crazy wild sex life I dreamt of.
The conditioning around a woman’s body is one I think very few of us escape. It is certainly not the story I wanted to share with the world—to admit my shame, my humiliation, the ways my ravenous sexual appetite has been buried in food and dowdy sheep’s clothing. And yet here I am. Because what I have found in my OM practice is the sex that oozes from my pores. Regardless of my size, of how much I’ve tried to mask my desire with weight, that wild pulsing ache is alive and well. I was told by a wise teacher at the start of my OM practice that no matter where I went people would always see me as a ball of sex. I couldn’t believe she could see me in here. But she did. And I knew it was true.
We have lost touch with our deep desire and masked it with other more appropriate but less nourishing things. We have come to believe that there is a deserving that needs to be earned to have our pleasure. That a woman who lives open, hungry and from her desire is a less respectable woman. Slutty is synonymous with trashy, cheap, and discardable. A woman shouldn’t be so ravenous, so out of control, so loose.
But I am. It’s who I am. I am wild, I am loud, I have a body full of curves and soft flesh. I am a ball of sex. And bit by bit I am finding the path out of this maze of conditioning and judgement and shame. I believe its part of the reason women come to OM—because we haven’t found a model in our world that works not just for the physical act of sex, but for the expression of our sexuality. Our bodies don’t fit the mold, literally and metaphorically, of the sex and expression that comes naturally. OM shakes up the foundation of conditioning we’ve all implicitly agreed to. OM shows us that within each women is an electrical field waiting to be ignited regardless of the package it shows up in.