I OM: The Story of Alexis

by OneTaste Living Library  Dec 2, 2013

My dad is a crier. He cries not just at Hallmark commercials but at the cards themselves. He cries while giving speeches at the dinner table on holidays, visiting sacred sites abroad, when thinking about how much he loves his cats. My dad is a crier.

My dad and I have a game… I just look at him with love and see how long it takes to make tears well up in his big, blue eyes. It’s usually under 3 seconds. My mom is less of a crier but cries to put emphasis on things, to let us know she’s really been impacted or hurt. She cries when she’s disappointed, when she’s in pain. I haven’t seen my Mom shed too many tears of joy. That’s my dad—my dad and I.

We cry from happiness more than sadness. We cry because we’re touched. We just cry. It’s how we process a wide spectrum of sensation in our bodies. I’ve cried during sex more than once when penetrated in a place I didn’t know existed from the poignancy of simultaneously realizing the place exists and that I’ve never been touched there before and may never be touched there again. It’s a feeling both of ecstasy and terrible loneliness.

A short while after I began OMing, I learned that in the OneTaste ideology, tears are considered orgasm coming out of the eyeballs. At first this sounded endearing. Like “Awwwww, what a sweet way to look at crying.” Then I heard a woman be told that if she kept OMing, orgasm would stop coming out of her eyeballs and start coming out of her pussy.

I began judging myself, judging this quality I’d always thought of as beautiful—this thing that my father and I shared—as bad, wrong and immature. I started equating my tears with proof that my sex was immature, that I was undesirable because all my Orgasm was leaking out of my eyeballs instead of dripping out of my pussy, as it ought to be in any turned on woman. A few days ago the night before my birthday, I got the idea while laying in my roommate’s lap crying puddles of tears, to write an article about orgasm coming out my pussy rather than my eyeballs. I was drowning. And I was fed up.

I was determined to push my orgasm down. No more of this crying bullshit. It was time to be a woman. I was, after all, about to turn 35.

From that point forward it seemed everything was stacked against me. My housemate, whom I love, moved to Vegas to follow his orgasm and be with his girlfriend—on my Birthday—before we ever had the chance to REALLY have a make out (I cried during our first attempt). We told him all the reasons we appreciated him. During mine I did my best to push the sensation down but was powerless to it welling up. About halfway through my expression of appreciation my orgasm burst forth—and not from my pussy. I surrendered to the fountain of tears. Less than 30 minutes later in the kitchen, another outburst of tears erupted when I told one of my housemates that everyone in the house had forgotten to wish me a happy birthday.

As I type this article I am laying in bed, tears still wet at the corners of my eyes having just cried for the third time today. I gave myself a one week deadline to write this article and at the start of the week, I thought to myself, “How am I going to stop crying and get turned on in my pussy by the end of this week?!!”

What I now realize, six days and a whole lot of tears later, is that my tears are not the enemy. My crying does not make me immature and is not something that I need to fix or change. I see that I will most likely cry less as I continue OMing more, that the more I do and the less I wallow in what I believe to be my own limitations, some of the tears will naturally dry up… AND I don’t need to look at orgasm coming out my eyeballs and orgasm coming out of my pussy as mutually exclusive. They don’t have to be.

I will perhaps do some focused research and look at the correlation between how much I’m OMing and how much I’m crying. For right now what I’ve come to is that the most important thing for me to do to be an orgasmic woman is not to stop crying, but rather to accept myself for who I am and begin to value what makes me unique, what my strengths and talents are, and to get even more willing to share myself in the world. It all comes back to the principle that orgasm is accepting exactly who and where you are and what is happening around you. A moment ago, as another wave of tears burst out of my eyeballs, I felt a surge of heat rush up my chest and an explosion of tingles pulse in my pussy. I AM turned on. Even with my tears. I choose orgasm now, exactly the way that I am.