A Love Story in the Field of Orgasm

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing


there is a field. I will meet you there.



When the soul lies down in that grass,


the world is too full to talk about.


Ideas, language, even the phrase each other


doesn’t make any sense.

~Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks

I met him in a field. The field of Orgasm. And, miraculously, he met me there.

We spoke very little. The words: a momentary verbal stroke guiding us back to that place beyond language.

Many of us ask, “Where is this place and how to I get there?”

The answer is deceptively simple.

The Place: here and now.

The How: Two words.

Attention.

Approval.

That’s it.

Simple? Yes.

Easy? Hardly.

But that’s why we practice. To invite our vulnerable sex out to play. To coax out our impacted erotic voice. Stumble and fall. Stumble and fall. Blame. Project. Hide. Reach. Touch. Soar. Drop. Down, down, down. Humility. Grace.

Rise up.

Repeat.

Ad nauseum.

Until a day comes when the moments of surrender outweigh the moments of struggle. The moments of judgment. The moments of taking it personally. The moments of ‘not loud enough or hot enough or good enough’.

The day you enter the field. The field of Orgasm. The field beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing.

I lay down in a nest of pillows, naked from the waist down. He sat to my right. We came together, as we had many times before, to practice Orgasmic Mediation.

I noticed his curious and unwavering attention. Total focus and approval of my body no matter where he roamed. Gentle fingers gliding over smooth skin. A few firm kneads into the meat of my thighs. Grounding. Deep. The knuckles of his fingers slipping over the coarse hair at the juncture of my hip and pussy.

He then slipped his left index finger lightly into the pocket of my clit. An immediate, electric zing coursed through my torso, down my legs and into his hand. My soul surrendered to the grass. All my defenses, masks and fears dissolved.

As he began stroking I could feel the heat building in my pussy. My left leg. My bottoms of my feet. Riding the edge of ecstatic unbearableness.

And then, in an instant, I popped out above our cloud. I lost connection to the sensation. And it’s oftentimes here, when we’ve scaled heights beyond our homeostatic range, that one can get lost in a judgmental mind-fuck.

“He’s not doing it right.”

“Oh, no, I lost attention and fucked it all up.”

“I’m not a turned-on, orgasmic woman.”

“I don’t want to ask for what I want because it will hurt his feelings.”

“I don’t want to ‘kill the moment’ with my trivial requests.”

“This sucks.”

“I’m bored.”

“My vibrator can pleasure me better than this.”

One might even, in the twisted logic of sexual anorexia (laced with puritanical fear), be grateful to have disconnected from such naked intimacy. After all, this man is not my fiancé. He is, in fact, not even a lover. How could I possible give over all my Orgasm, all my pleasure, all my treasures to someone I casually know? What if he expects something in return? How dare he try to take more than his fair share! No one violates me!

But none of that enters the field. Years of practice have now bypassed the ‘ego preservation’ response.

First: Attention. Pure, clean attention. I noticed the sensation in my genitals has decreased.

Second: Approval. My clit feels numb. And that’s OK.

No drama. No self-lacerating. No debating with Orgasm on how it ‘should’ feel.

And the moment I admitted those four little words, “My clit feels numb,” a rush of fire flooded the left side of my genitals and tiny, sharp clit-teeth dug into his stroking finger.

Attention plus Approval begets Orgasm.

Later on, another moment arose. This time, the sensation dropped, though it was not from numbness. Orgasm had moved and requested attention elsewhere.

I listened to her. I acknowledged her request. And in return, my desire rang clear.

I spoke.

“A little lower. Less pressure, please. Slightly to the left.”

Cool, fresh air expanded over us and icicles prickled the skin on my arms.

At the end of our OM, he shared that there was no screen to our venture.

“Yes,” I agreed.

Almost too much to acknowledge the truth in our shared experience. My “yes” was a confession. A giving up of my game. Checkmate. I had been seen.

Raw and unfiltered. No pretense, veneer, artifice, seduction, romance, manipulation, drama or gilding the lily. Simply me. Him. And the field.

And with that level of surrender came the greatest range of Orgasm I have yet known.

I’m not talking about Orgasm as climax. As a 30-second exhausting crash at the end of a rollercoaster you’ve been chasing with all your fury.

I’m talking about Orgasm. That breathing, pulsing force of life that births every moment and catapults you into the unknown. Knocks you on your involuntary ass and demands the immediate relinquishment of your emotional arsenal. That burns and twists and grinds and fucks you open in depths of your shadow.

And Orgasm. That sweet, downy caress that bathes your face in fresh milk and purrs mildly in your ear. That sings you softly awake in the purest of light.

And Orgasm. Unattached. Unexpectant. Unconditional. Love.

He got up. Washed his hands. I twisted my skirt back on. A warm hug.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.

“Safe travels,” I replied.

The door closed.

The dance ended.

I met him in a field. The field of Orgasm. And, thankfully, he met me there.