Reconciliation With My Orgasm

by Nicole Diaz  Feb 5, 2016
Reconciliation With My Orgasm

Before - and by before I mean a few hours ago - if anyone had asked me, I would have said in an even tone that I hadn’t really gone into the involuntary before.

In fact, I said that exact thing at the start of the OM.

In my mind, I had a fixed image of a Woman-Lost-to-the-World in the force of something massive and almost scary in its unrestrained movement. I was waiting to be cracked open and tossed around. It’s like I was expecting to be violated by my own Orgasm.

I now realize that every time I said that I had not yet gone into my involuntary, I was, at that precise moment, unconsciously kicking my own Orgasm in the gut.

Why can’t you be more like Her? I would demand, referring to the Woman-Lost. I had zero idea I was doing this. Because to me my Orgasm hadn’t yet arrived, so how could I be unkind to her?

During the OM, the house was so quiet that any sound or movement seemed out of place. So instead of pushing out to meet the other person as I normally do, I slipped into an almost meditative state. I could still feel the tug of performance offering to distract me from the lurking shame that nothing was happening. But I didn’t take it up on its offer.

Instead, I allowed the pauses. I hung out in the empty spaces, listening. I allowed.

And in that quiet welcoming space, my Orgasm unfolded.

My stroker matched me in a way that felt like the constant provision of a kind of sweet relief. I had the overriding sense that no stroke asked more of me than I could give. I wasn’t shouted at or jolted to go faster. The words that come to me now are that I was being thanked.

Afterward, my stroker said that there was a moment where everything disappeared and it was just a wave. A pulse. It filled the room.

The trainer, who had not spoken a word the whole time, said that no words needed to be spoken. She had been immersed.

With their reflections, I allowed myself to fully feel the richness of the OM, of this thing called Orgasm flowing through me.

I realized that part of me had been prepared to be told that nothing much had happened, to be overlooked. And if that had been the feedback, I would have agreed and felt a secret shame that my Orgasm wasn’t there for me.

Instead, I received the frames and felt this disproportionate gratitude for being seen. They saw me. They heard me, and I didn’t have to scream and shout. They found me where I live.

Then in a light mind’s twist, I went a step deeper. Wait a second. I was waiting for them to receive me before I would receive myself. No wonder I was so damn grateful to be seen. I had made my existence conditional upon their understanding.

And then, it hit me with a sharp sob. I had to put up my hand to pause the conversation while understanding tore through me.

How harshly I had judged my own Orgasm. Oh lord, I am so sorry.

If I had to make an amends, it would sound like this:

Please forgive me. Forgive me for believing that you, in your subtle beauty, were simply not enough. I believed this so fiercely I negated your existence and imagined I was numb.

Forgive me for the politely apologizing comments I have made for your absence, oblivious to your presence because it didn’t fit my requirements.

Forgive me for my addiction to performance, desperately manipulating the other person into sticking by my side so that they could confirm that I existed. But of course it was never the other person who was going to abandon me. It was me who was constantly and already leaving you. I left you because I believed you were to0 soft, too unassuming, to get the love I needed from the other person. How completely ass-backwards. You are love.

You have been here this entire time and I hadn’t understood. I had been waiting for you to show up all wild and out of control, as something separate from who I am, rather than who I am in my most subtle core.

Now I finally, finally understand who you have been constantly revealing yourself to be. The experience of meeting you isn’t like being broken open by some invasive force.

It’s like having the veils pulled off of my face, one by one.

It’s like a soft whisper that requires my full attention to hear its secrets.

It’s like an act of devotion that is so pure it goes unnoticed.

(Photo Credit: unknown)