Because it’s not a matter of “if,” but “right stimulation for the right amount of time,” multiple orgasms are a mindset as much as anything else. I’m not necessarily waiting to have sex until I feel “turned on.” I might be turned on before I start or I might cultivate and build arousal as I go. If I’m in a partner sex situation, I don’t start with the idea that the other person is going to be “giving me orgasms.” If that happens it’s great, but generally speaking, I am in charge of my own body and orgasms. So there’s a certain amount of responsibility and self leadership I’ve claimed to be able to have this be my pleasure practice. Since I’m single at the moment I’m going to write the process with masturbation. But in a partnered situation it’s basically the same.

• Make time. Set aside like 2 or more hours, usually in the afternoon, cuz at night I’m tired and I just want to go to bed at a reasonable hour.
• Set up. Pick a location. Lately it’s been the living room in front of a full length mirror, with a floor chair and toys, oil, and lube next to me.
• I start building arousal with oil and vulva massage.
• I might read some erotica or I might watch myself in the mirror.
• Depending on my mood I might have an orgasm kinda quick, in like 20 minutes, or I might not. Usually this first orgasm is with stimulation of the glans of my clitoris, on the outside, with or without penetration.
• After the first orgasm, I might stop stimulation for a minute or two and just breathe and press my hands into my vulva. If I’m using the barbel I usually leave it inside.
• Then I change up the kind of stimulation, like going back to massage, or penetration if I wasn’t already penetrating.
• I like to start penetration with the barbel and then move onto bigger toys once I’ve had one orgasm.
• Once I’m fully aroused, which I feel in my body as swelling and desire for more stimulation, then penetration with larger toys feels amazing and what my body wants is urethral sponge stimulation and hitting the parts of my internal clitoris that are inside.
• From here, the pleasure builds and I can go as long as I want to.
• At a certain point, I’m not seeking orgasm, the orgasms seek me. This is at least an hour or more in and I can feel the altered state come over me. My “thinking brain” turns off.

We’re not starting from scratch each time, because the arousal builds as we keep going. For me to get to the state of arousal where the orgasms are chasing me instead of the other way around, I need to be stimulated enough but not over stimulated.

Though I don’t always have time for a long session, I like to come enough times that the world looks different. To stroke and stoke that desire fire within. To take the time and care to surrender fully to my body. Several orgasms in and I feel different, my eyes see differently, and the world appears different in the best way. Softer, gentler. I often think that if all of us were experiencing more orgasm our world would be different.

And Now, Some Whimsy:

Plop and fizz, we want it fast. We want the plot twist and the crank on our heartstrings. The sweet rub and tug of uncontrollable wild passion. And while I want some intrigue for all of us, freebasing intensity tends to generate exhausting misunderstandings when it comes to getting turned on enough to build multiple orgasmic arousals in our bodies.

There’s another way. A slower steadfastier path to building turn on. It’s simple and yet somehow not easy. Not easy because we have to contend with the voice in our head that’s not really us. The one that says all the mean-spirited things and makes us question our worth. The one who speaks with the patriarchy’s voice or grind culture’s voice. I don’t really know whose voice it is, just that it’s not mine and it’s most certainly not yours. It’s the voice who questions our need for repetition. The one who shamefully claims, “I can only come by xyz means and because of this, I must be wrong. Why am I so wrong?” And the one who thinks our pussy should be something other than what it is. Bigger, smaller, wetter, sleeker, fluffier, faster, slower, blah, blah, blah.

We gotta come back down to earth, baby. We gotta get quiet enough to hear the ancient sex priestesses chanting in the thick dark forest next to our forest. To slow the chatter of our doubting minds, as say the wise. And this takes a bit of practice. A bit of attunement. A bit of letting go of expectations.

A bit of turning down the shame and judgement song and turning up the curiosity song. A bit of touching the pain just enough that we know we’re real and not an algorithm. And not a robot. And not a tech bro, even if we turn the gears of technology as a way to keep that roof over our heads.

We don’t actually need to know more.

We don’t actually need to know more.

We don’t need perfection’s brittleness.

We don’t need perfection’s brittleness.

We don’t need to blow our circuits on grind culture’s intensity.

We don’t need to blow our circuits on grind culture’s intensity.

And we don’t need the fixation of what should’vewould’vecould’ve been different.

And we don’t need the fixation of what should’vewould’vecould’ve been different.

I’m repeating these for us because we need the balm of repetition of truth rubbed into the bruises we don’t exactly acknowledge, but that nonetheless hurt when we accidentally press them.

Ouch.

Ouch.

I want to invite you to practice stepping out of that suit of false voices and standing in your naked curiosity. Keep your clothes on or don’t, I don’t really care about that. For as it is known, sometimes it’s very hot to slide a hand between skin and zipper. I want to invite you to slide your fingertips from your cute chin down the midline of your body and breathe in the energy of marveling at yourself. Cry if you need to. That is, if that’s what’s there for you. Marvel at the facts, logic, and science that something as beautiful as you exists right now. That something as beautiful as you has never existed in this exact combination before. Nor shall something quite your mixture of lovely ever exist again once you’re gone. Wow. You’re here. You. Are. Here. You incarnated into this gorgeous creature that holds heaven and earth in the precious and sweet curves of your shoulders. You don’t have to prove your worth to me, I see it written all over your ancient face. That face your ancestors dreamt of when they dreamt of you. And that face your descendants need in order to get here.

You are gorgeously standing barefooted in the wet cool river of dreaming, the living one with the warm earth body here now, imbued with ancient blessings, telling the stories of your time. I look at you and marvel. I want to hear you come. And then, once you catch your breath, I want to hear you come again. And again. And for good luck, again?

This is your story. And it’s my story. Let’s say it’s our story. As the false stories continue crumbling around us, let us sigh and moan the new narratives together. Because as the wise say, false and brittle stories can only stand there masquerading as true for so long. Let us weave the weft and nap of ancient newness. The tale that belts out that you have a right to be here and take up space. You have the right to be authentically you, that stunning rainbow cricket that you are. And you are crafting and creating the river as you’re standing in it, going about your day. As am I.

So my friend, you’re just staying with the pleasurable sensations. Dip into them. Breathe. Dip in again. Breathe. Pleasure’s baseline is fervent, which can take some practice to embrace. But I know you can do it. I know you can do it because you’re here standing in front of me with those cute buttcheek dimples and that thirsty look on your face. You got here, didn’t you? And because we won’t always be here like this, snorting time together, we may as well crank that curiosity song up to 11 and go for it.

Photo by Emils Nemse on Unsplash

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