O Wow!

I GREW UP IN a house where The Joy of Sex was on the bottom shelf in the family room, but the closest thing I got to a sex talk was a year too late.

I grew up thinking that sex was a thing that boys wanted and girls shouldn’t want.

I grew up chasing after boys because I didn’t know it was okay for me to chase girls, despite my parents’ complete lack of homophobia.

It’s impossible to be a woman writing a book about female orgasm and not write about your own experience. And when it comes to orgasm, I consider myself a reasonably fulfilled girl over my lifetime, and an exceptionally satisfied girl these days.

I’ve had a number of male partners and enough female partners to know the score. I’ve had some okay partners and I’ve had some truly impressive partners. But sitting here now looking back over all of my experiences, I am acutely aware of the one thing all of those experiences had in common—me.

The best sex I’ve had has happened when I am at my best, with a partner who is as interested in my pleasure as in his or her own. When I say “at my best,” I don’t mean age or body or even general happiness or being in love. I mean in it. Really and truly in it.

For me, having an otherwise unfathomable orgasm is about being in my body and mind and being invested in that orgasm. Sure, there may be those girls out there who are telling the truth when they say they can come at the drop of a hat, from nothing more than penetration, from a sound or a smell or a thought, no touch required.

For the rest of us regular girls, however, insane orgasms—ultimate orgasms—are very much within our reach, but not, most often, without some serious desire and intent on our parts. My pussy needs to be one hundred percent committed if it’s going to happen, and so does my brain. Our brains are wonderful and dangerous things. They can take us on amazing journeys. But they can also keep us from enjoying any of the steps, from first to last, if they so choose.

For me, having my brain in the right place was something I learned from the very beginning of my journey as a sexual person.

“You are responsible for your own orgasm,” my very first boyfriend told me the very first time we had sex, when I was seventeen. He wasn’t being lazy. He just wanted me to know that I was in control. I was then and I have been ever since. In many ways, I believe that’s the key to being orgasmic.

That night, he carried me up to his room, Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” playing on the stereo, candles burning in mismatched holders. I came that night, over and over, and I was absolutely mesmerized. I didn’t know it then. But I came because I was experiencing blended orgasms, which we will discuss in a number of the chapters coming up.

He fingered me and went down on me and always made sure my clit got the stimulation it needed. He was at least two years my senior and he knew what he was doing. I am eternally grateful for that. He has no idea, but he paved the way for the girl I am sexually today.

That seems like a very, very long time ago now. I have since had my share of partners, men and women alike, and I have had my share of good sex and bad. I’ve faked my share of orgasms and I have learned my lesson from making that very bad choice. I’ve been in threesomes and moresomes. I’ve been tied up and spanked till I was black and blue. I’ve been burnt with candle wax and had sex in public places.

All of that was fun and exciting and interesting. But none of it taught me about who I was at my core sexually, and none of it brought me to what I have come to know as my own ultimate orgasm. And I’ll tell you why: I wasn’t focused enough on what I was looking for to know when I found it.

There was a time in my life when sex meant a man snuggling up against my back, spooning me, playing with my clit until I was wet, and then climbing on top of me—or me climbing on top of him. I love the feeling of a partner’s weight on me. But I could never come like that.

If I was on top, I had a chance if he could last long enough for me to rub my clit on his pubic bone. Although I have had partners complain that I rubbed them raw and the pain was a serious turn-off. Regardless of whether I came or not, he would come and we would be done for the most part. Some would ask if I wanted him to “finish me off,” which always made me feel like my orgasms were an afterthought.

Sure, I had some excellent male partners who ate or fingered my pussy till I came. But I was never in a relationship, even with the most amazing men, where my orgasm was equal to his. The best ones were the one-night stands or occasional repeat partners. But unless it was first-impression sex, the bread-and-butter sex always ended up being like I described above.

You could say I just had a bad run. But I don’t buy it. When I had great sex with men, I had to really advocate for myself, and they were often quite surprised. Happy to oblige, but quite surprised.

But when I had sex with women, it was totally different. There was no road map. There were just two people who wanted to get each other off. That was when I learned what my body wanted and needed and what it was capable of.

A study was released in August 2014 that proved what many of us have long known: Lesbians have higher instances of orgasms than straight women when they have sex, something that both Kinsey and Masters and Johnson posited long ago. In other words, a woman engaging in sex with another woman is more likely to have an orgasm then if she was engaged in sex with a man. Women reported experiencing orgasm 62.9 percent of the time. Lesbian women reported an orgasm rate of 74.7 percent (Garcia et al. 2014).

Why? Well, the study offers, “One possible explanation is that self-identified lesbian women are more comfortable and familiar with the female body and thus, on average, are better able to induce orgasm in their female partners. Similarly, previous research has suggested that the length of sexual encounters varies as a function of the sex/gender of the participants, with two women having longer durations of sexual activity than heterosexual pairs [27–29], potentially affecting orgasm outcomes” (Garcia et al. 2014).

The study also suggested that less rigid gender roles, more knowledge of the female body, more variety in sexual activities, and less focus on “performance” led to the increase in orgasms for lesbians over heterosexual women.

It seems funny to me, but it wasn’t until now, while writing this book, that I began to experience and understand what exactly my own ultimate orgasm is. It’s crazy, I know. But it’s true. Researching this book very quickly turned into my own Personal Orgasm Project (P.O.P.).

It’s like a lot of things, I guess. I was having okay enough sex. So, I didn’t give it much thought. I was just happy to be having it. And then, as I was working on this book, I started asking myself, “Are you having the best possible sex you could be having? Are you trying all the things? Are you as present as you could be? Are you asking for what you want? Are you being honest about what your desires actually are? Are you having sex the way you would if you didn’t have any preconceived notions about having sex the way you think you ‘should’?”

The answer to all of those questions was the same. “I don’t know. But I sure would like to find out.”

And at that point it felt like all of the planets aligned, because here I had this project, and I happened to be with a partner, a very new partner, who was game to embark on the project with me. No holds barred. Even when things had the potential to get scary or to feel embarrassing, we kept the space safe for one another and we pushed the boundaries and limits that we then realized were insanely arbitrary. And just like that, we started having the kind of sex we had both always wanted to have.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t just like that. There was plenty of trial and error and “oops”es and “oh”s and even more hysterical laughter and confessions and on more than one occasion asking, “Am I a pervert?” But it wasn’t long before we let ourselves be ourselves, and although I didn’t find my ultimate orgasm with that particular partner, I came much closer than I ever had before.

It was kind of amazing, and I feel very lucky to have experienced that with someone. But I don’t think there was anything special about us. Not at all. It’s funny. When I wanted to learn to ski, I read up on it and took lessons. Same with rock climbing and sandboarding and scuba diving and rappelling and hang gliding and any number of other adventures I take part in.

And even though I write about sex a lot (and I read an awful lot about it too), I didn’t think I needed any lessons or to do any more field work. I figured I was having orgasms. I was a decent masturbator. What more could a girl ask for? The answer is, a lot, actually. Because there is nothing like learning from an expert and focusing your work in the field.

So once she and I started focusing and things started getting really good, I decided it was time to look for a way to up the ante. And I found it.

There’s an eighty-five-year-old woman, notorious in feminist and sex-positive circles, who holds naked workshops in her New York City apartment that teach women how to have and enhance their orgasms. Her name is Betty Dodson.

She is the author of the insanely bestselling book Sex for One and has been the consummate orgasm and masturbation guru since the ’70s. You might call her a founding mother of women’s sexual liberation. I certainly would.

I attended one of those famous Bodysex workshops, and even for a girl like me who already felt pretty good about her pussy and her orgasms, it was life-changing.

“Jenny! I was supposed to meet you at the door naked,” the gorgeous woman standing before me said before flinging her arms around me. She was almost naked, wearing a thin white tank top that barely covered her behind. “I’m Carlin,” she said. Carlin Ross is the business partner of famed sex educator Betty Dodson.

“Come on, let’s get undressed,” Carlin said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. And if you’re there for one of Betty’s famous Bodysex workshops, it is. I followed her back to the vestibule at the entryway of Betty’s Madison Avenue apartment, and I slipped out of my yoga pants and T-shirt as she slipped out of her tank top.

As Carlin greeted the other attendees coming in, I went into the main room where BackJacks were set up in a circle, each with a towel on it, a pillow behind it, and a tray next to it with a box of Kleenex, a glass of water, a bottle of almond oil, a Dodson Vaginal Barbell, and a Mystic Wand vibrator.

As I tried to decide where to sit, I heard someone say, “Jenny. You’re Jenny Block. We know each other.” I panicked for a minute. What if she was a PTA mom from my daughter’s school? What if we didn’t like one another? What if…

“I was at your book signing. In San Francisco. For Open. At Good Vibrations,” she said.

“Oh!” I said, incredibly relieved. She hugged me, and it took me a minute to remember I didn’t have any clothes on. Already it seemed perfectly reasonable to be naked with strangers.

More women filled the room and we all began to take our seats. It’s an interesting quandary trying to decide how to sit naked in a room full of strangers. Legs straight out. Like a pretzel. One knee up. Before I could really decide, Betty entered the room.

I was in awe. Eighty-five years old and she walked in as naked as the rest of us and settled into her BackJack as if this scenario was the most common thing in the world, which, to her, it was. Although she has taken a hiatus recently, Betty began doing these workshops in the ’70s.

From that moment forward, in some ways, the entire rest of the two days I spent at the workshop were a blur.

Betty welcomed us and began sharing some of her philosophy about sex and orgasms and vulvas (not vaginas) and bodies. (What we see externally is the vulva. The vagina is the internal canal. Period. Betty has been on a lifelong crusade—and rightly so—to get people to use those words properly.)

We started out by going around the circle, talking about how we felt about our bodies and our orgasms, hinting at why each of us was there.

Three of the eight women were getting certified to teach workshops of their own. One was there because of some level of vulvar shame. I was there to gather info for this very book. The others were there simply to learn how to get more out of masturbation and to better understand their own orgasm.

We then moved on to some breathing and an exercise where we slowly entered our nostrils with our oiled pinkies to expand our breathing and take note of how we should respect any opening we enter. Strange exercise. Excellent point.

Soon it was time to retire to the kitchen for fresh strawberries and cookies. Nothing like nudity and orgasm talk to build up an appetite. Despite the sex talk and naked bodies, it was like any other snack break. Almost.

Our group nudity long forgotten, we gathered in the narrow galleystyle kitchen and ate and talked like old friends, giggling to ourselves when our bare bottoms touched the counters as we made room for one another.

Before too long, Betty rang a tiny bell, indicating that it was time for us to circle up again. She spoke about the power of women, the importance of orgasm, and just how vital this work is. Then it was time. Time for genital show-and-tell. No need to read that again. It said exactly what you think it said.

Carlin set pillows against the wall and laid out towels. She brought out a small standing mirror and an ancient desk lamp. As she did, she teased Betty about wanting to get rid of the lamp because it was so old and heated up too much. Betty scowled at her. She’d been using the lamp since the ’70s, and getting rid of it was not an option.

Carlin smiled at her and shook her head. “Okay,” she said, redirecting. “Betty will go first and I’ll go last.”

We had all dragged our towels over and were seated or lying in various positions, our faces now just inches away from Betty’s pussy. She spread her legs, oiled her fingers, and then spread her outer and then inner lips.

She literally gave us a tour, reminding us sternly once again that what we were seeing from the outside was her vulva, not her vagina, which was the internal canal.

It was perhaps one of the most profound moments of my life. Like so many other moments during the workshop, it felt tribal and ancient, as if we were gathered in the red tent to be gifted with the wisdom of our sister elder. At the same time, I simply could not stop smiling to myself and thinking in my head about how nuts this was, all of us naked and peering between the legs of this famed octogenarian.

Betty continued her guided tour, showing us how one of her inner lips is quite long. As a kid, she thought it was from favoring that side when she masturbated.

Betty joked about the prickliness of gray pubic hair, and she apologized to her pussy, promising to groom her as she looked in the mirror and arranged the hair away from the lips, sharing herself as casually as one might share far less intimate body parts.

Then it was our turn. And one by one we sat next to Betty and spread our legs as we looked into the mirror with Betty and admired our pussies. Betty, with a gloved hand, would point out certain features and “style” each of our pussies for a photo, which Carlin took and later emailed to us.

Betty also has a charming habit of naming the “style” of pussy you have, as well as choosing an architectural period for it. And then she helps you name her, unless you already have a name picked out.

I have a doughnut pussy, she told me as I sat with my knees falling open and my pussy lips spread wide. A doughnut because I have full outer lips that outline the inner lips.

“Your design is perfect,” she told me. I’m quite sure I blushed. A perfect pussy according to Betty Dodson—The Dodson, as Carlin affectionately calls her, and as we began to call her, too.

“A post-modern pussy,” she declared. I couldn’t help but grin. “And what about a name?” she asked. “Do you have a name for your pussy?”

And somehow, something that seemed so impossible just a moment before was over and The Dodson was off on her next pussy review. I felt happy and safe and, yes, validated and empowered too. I have never really had any issues with my pussy. But having other women look at you, really look at you, is a powerful experience.

After show-and-tell was through, we wrapped up for the day. One of the women asked what plans we had.

The chatter began about where we should go. We agreed on a restaurant around the corner and set out for the evening. There must have been an incredible energy about us. The crowds along the packed New York sidewalks parted like the Red Sea, and when we got to the restaurant, our waiter asked what we were celebrating.

“Our cunt,” one of my new friends offered. I kind of loved it. Our collective cunt. Exactly.

The waiter didn’t miss a beat. “So, champagne all around,” he said with a smile that nearly took over his face.

The next day, we all showed back up at Betty’s apartment and whipped our clothes off as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And, honestly, it was.

“Play is the most important thing when you’re little,” Betty explained. “You don’t get enough of it when you’re an adult.”

Carlin, who Betty affectionately referred to as her “stunt cunt,” demonstrated Betty’s Rock ’n’ Roll method of masturbation while Betty directed and commentated.

“The body knows a lot more than your head,” Betty explained. “Trust your body. Our heads are monsters.”

After the demonstration and another short exercise, it was time for the main event, what Betty calls “erotic recess.”

Even right up to the moment when we reclined in a circle in the center of the room, holding our Mystic Wands to our pussies while Betty directed us, “More pelvis,” “Fuck forward,” I wasn’t sure I could do it. I wasn’t sure I could lie back, let my knees fall to the side, and masturbate toe to toe in a circle of women who I had met just twenty-four hours before.

But then it suddenly seemed as impossible to do as it was ridiculous to decline. How could I, when I was literally going to be sitting at the feet of the master?

So I went to my towel and I did it. I followed the steps. I heard the moans. I began to moan myself. I rocked and rolled. I watched the women around me and was energized and, yes, turned on by the faces and the bodies and the incredible energy that was emanating from everyone. And as time passed, I began to hear some of the other women in the room coming.

One of those women was Betty. I found out later that it’s quite rare for Betty to come during a workshop, and she told us it had been two weeks since she had masturbated. So I was thrilled that I could be part of the group that inspired her.

I staved off each orgasm that I felt coming up on me until my brain started to interrupt. Was I having performance anxiety? Was the girl writing a book about orgasm unable to have one in this supercharged setting? Had I missed my orgasm window? Had la petite mort (as the French so gracefully refer to orgasm) evaded me?

I raised my hand when I saw Betty stand up, as I had been told to do if I needed help. I figured she would hand me the high-powered Magic Wand (as opposed to the lower powered Mystic Wands we were using) and that would do the trick. But instead, Betty Dodson, The Dodson, fucked me to orgasm.

She sat next to me, put her hand on my chest, and began to move the Vaginal Barbell in and out of my pussy. Instantly the sensations switched. She instructed me to keep rocking my pelvis, to keep breathing, to go with it.

She put her fist against my perineum. She looked right at me. She smiled and encouraged me, and the tears began to fall as they sometimes do right before, during, or after an incredible orgasm. She stopped me from overarching my back, as I am prone to do, and blocking the power of my orgasm.

Betty stayed with me the whole time, and I collapsed after I’m not sure how many small orgasms and then one grand finale to end all finales.

I felt powerful and grateful and even a little blessed. I felt as if the greatest gift had just been given to me without the smallest breath of apology or shame.

Betty went on to help one of the other women, and I rode the aftershocks and slowly reentered reality.

I wandered over to a friend’s mat afterward, and we started talking about the erotic recess experience. She had been having a bit of a rough day. She had told us at the start of the workshop that day that she had gotten her period and was feeling headachey and sleepy and all around lousy. So during the erotic recess, she wasn’t having much luck in the orgasm department.

She knew I was working on this book, so when we started talking about what makes her come, I mentioned that I was curious about doing a little hands-on research. She said she was quite sure couldn’t come, but she was more than game to be my guinea pig.

Feeling incredibly grateful at her generous offer, I knelt between her knees. I started by massaging her thighs. Then I did a slow, focused vulvar massage. I asked if I could enter her, and for a little while we talked while I moved my fingers in and out of her pussy, discussing what felt good and what spot was what and all of that.

She reiterated that she didn’t think she could come with all of the commotion in the room and the way she was feeling, and I sensed that she felt a little pressured. I assured her that there was no pressure at all and that we had all the time in the world. And although I didn’t have any stake in her coming, I did think an orgasm might have helped how she was feeling. So after our anatomical exploration, I suggested that we pretend we were in our own little bubble and that she focus on herself and her breath and what she was feeling and see where it took us.

Sure enough, after just a few minutes, she had a glorious orgasm, and for the first time all day she felt like herself. It felt like a healing, like I had ministered to a friend, and I felt really lucky to be connected to someone who could allow herself such pleasure with a veritable stranger for no reason other than curiosity about what her body might be capable of with the touch and the right connection to another person. We hugged, and I was blown away at the power of the female mind and the female orgasm and our ability to change our physical state when we forget about the “shoulds” of convention and instead think of nothing else but the way our bodies feel.

Several months after the workshop, I asked Amy (not her real name) what the experience was like for her. This is what she had to say:

I remember the intention of our exploration having nothing to do with coming, but rather investigating the

G-spot. As your hands rested on my knees, I could feel that you were fully present with me and that I was safe in your hands. The first part of our session together was spent less on building pleasure and more on exploring my body and your touch. Feedback was constant on both sides, which was fascinating.

I remember you mentioning feeling the urethral sponge expanding with your continued touch—noting how the texture changed. Gradually you ended up with four fingers inside of me, engaged in a slow, rhythmic, “come hither” motion. I remember my body opened up very quickly. It was at this point you suggested I grab the vibrator. Shortly after, I had a wonderful orgasm.

What made this situation so beautifully memorable and transformative was the ability to receive sexual pleasure with a non-sexual intention. From my point of view, it was only really about coming when you suggested grabbing the vibrator and both of us consented to allow it to go there.

Feeling safe to openly explore our bodies not only alone, but with others, will bring us deeper into our sexuality and help us to achieve greater levels of pleasure.

The workshop ended with us splitting into two groups and performing a group massage on each participant. Once again, the vibe was ancient and tribal and healing, as the whole workshop had been.

I felt imbued with an energy that my body recognized as something for which it was desperately hungry. A sexual energy that could change the world if harnessed. I felt so lucky to have had this incredible experience with these truly incredible women.

There’s so much more that happened, that changed in me, that changed in all of us. So many funny moments, eye-opening moments, even some sad moments. So many connections. It was fun and silly and serious and life-affirming.

I went to the workshop because I was researching orgasm for my book. I left the workshop knowing so much more about myself and these women and sexuality than I could have imagined.

And, yes, I had one hell of a chain of orgasms. Betty Dodson may be eighty-five. But she’s right. She’s got skills. “Give me any woman, any age, and I’ll get ’em off,” Betty told us when the workshop began. Indeed.

But the journey did not stop there. That night, I had the pleasure of spending a few private hours with one of my classmates. She knew I was writing this book, and she had seen me bring Amy to orgasm during the workshop and was curious about what it might be like to be with a woman. I was happy to oblige. I feel grateful to women who are game to play and explore in search of their ultimate orgasm, leaving behind any expectations or preconceived notions in terms of how they have defined sex for themselves up until that moment.

We played for hours. The focus was all on her, something we both wanted. And the evening ended in her having what looked to be a gorgeously full orgasm. Several weeks later, I asked her what the experience was like for her, to have the clock become irrelevant and to have a partner interested in nothing more than her pleasure. She teased me that I had ruined her.

“It raised my expectations of how good it could feel,” she said. And she found herself marveling at what “the process to orgasm” can look like. “The tension wasn’t there because you knew what you were doing and you were dedicated and you enjoyed it.

“I really appreciated the presence and care and focus. It raised my expectations of how a partner could treat me, and I haven’t felt that from a man. It taught me a lot about what’s possible. It also taught me how much more care and time I could take with myself, because I definitely rush my own masturbation.”

It was a bit of a “science experiment” for us both, and it was a powerful reminder to me that that really is the only way to find your ultimate orgasm: with someone who has no ulterior motives, nothing but time and a willingness to give you the space to explore.

I feel incredibly lucky to have experienced that and to be exploring it with yet another partner now as I write this—with the person with whom I did discover my ultimate orgasm, in fact. I would challenge you to settle for nothing less in your own life.

It’s funny, really. We share pleasure when we eat good food or scale a mountain or dip into a natural hot springs under a clear blue sky. We cry at plays and gasp at films together. We share all sorts of emotional experiences. But when it comes to sexual pleasure, we don’t even share our experiences verbally, let alone actually witness one another sexually.

But everyone wants and needs validation that they’re normal. And that’s close to impossible to come by if we keep so much about our sexual selves to ourselves. All we know of human sexuality, in many ways, is fake, photoshopped porn images, hiding anything of our real selves from view. It’s a shame. Because if we saw the real thing, we wouldn’t be so bowled over by the media versions. We need to talk more about sex. What it’s like for us. What we’re looking for. We need to ask questions and trust and rely on each other instead of on Google for reassurance and information.

We have to talk about how women’s sexuality is different from men’s. We have to talk about sexual history and how women used to be treated for “hysteria” by being masturbated to orgasm by their doctor. (That’s how the vibrator was invented, in fact. Women weren’t crazy. They needed to have some healthy orgasms. Check out Sex at Dawn for a great history and explanation of that amazing phenomenon.) We have to talk about how research fails us as women when it comes to orgasm and how our own experiences trump the lab.

You can start by talking to your friends—to anyone you trust, actually. And you need to talk to your partner. If that’s someone brand new, it’s all the easier because you can start out fresh.

There is a wonderful power to being sexually involved with someone new. You can be the person you have always wanted to be, and there’s no one to question you. So if you have the luxury of taking on a new partner, think about who you want to be sexually. What would your authentic self look like? It might be a little uncomfortable at first, as you’ll be trying on a new you. But it can be incredibly rewarding to take the leap and exercise your whole self instead of hiding it out of fear of rejection.

When I met one of my past partners, I was really nervous about what the sex would be like. In my mind, she was a “real” lesbian and I was just a “baby” one, despite having been in a relationship with a woman for eight years and having been with a number of women. The truth was that most of the women I had been with had identified as straight before they met me. I had only briefly hooked up with a woman who identified as a lesbian. And here was this woman, who was sixteen years old when she came out, who had been with a number of women before we met. I was afraid she might eat me alive—not in a good way—and laugh at me. Instead, she was actually quite shy and demure. The woman she had been with just before we got together had been married to a man prior to dating her and was incredibly uncomfortable with sex and her own body.

When we hit the sheets, she deferred to me. She may have presented as soft butch to the world. But she was as femme as they come in bed. So I decided this was my big chance. I could be whoever I wanted to be sexually, whoever I had always imagined myself to be but was never quite able to manifest. If she didn’t like it, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. But if she did, I could finally be my actual, whole self.

And I’ll be damned. Not only did it work, she said that my doing it allowed her to do exactly the same. So what were those things I did, exactly? Well, they weren’t earth-shattering, I can tell you that. They were really quite simple:

1. Being present.

2. Asking for what I wanted.

3. Keeping my eyes open during sex and orgasm.

4. Really looking at her body and at her pussy. (And telling her how much I was turned on by her looking at me.)

That’s it. That’s who I am sexually. Present, observant, and self-advocating. Like I said, not rocket science. Really, those are the fundamentals of what I hope we can all be sexually. The rest, the particulars, that’s just window dressing. If you have these basics, you really do have it all.

So, if I’m with someone new, I start from the top. I start with what’s real and true, and then I never have to untangle and get out from whatever sexual lies I’ve woven. That’s why faking is so damn dangerous. Once you fake, you’ve said, “I like what you’re doing.” So to then have to retreat from that can make your partner feel very untrusting and very unsafe.

Lesson learned. If I’m with someone that I’d like to stay with, but I want to improve my orgasmic life, I know it’s time for some serious truth-telling. And you know what? It’s never easy and it’s never comfortable and it rarely feels good. But how often does change feel good right at the get-go? How often does learning something new feel comfortable during the first lesson? Almost never. But how many times has the result been worth the discomfort? 99 percent of the time, in my experience, whether it’s been moving or breaking up or changing jobs or learning to scuba dive.

My orgasm is important enough to tell the truth about and to do the work to get to where I want to be, which is exactly where I am now: having the most incredible sex of my life, adventurous, open, loving, exploratory, and real.

At the time of this writing, I’m exploring with a new partner, my girlfriend Lacey, someone with whom I am deeply in love and who is young and confident and open. She is androgynous in appearance, with short hair and a distinct preference for gorgeous custom-tailored suits and a leather jacket that makes me weak in the knees.

I find my attraction to her curious and surprising, as “girly girls” were long more my thing. That might explain the intense attraction and stellar sex I’m now experiencing. If you’ve always been even slightly mismatched, finding your match—not to mention being deeply in love—makes for the kind of sex that you think is only myth.

She teased me mercilessly for a week before we ultimately had sex. It was shockingly good. Not “good for the first time” sex. But actually good. Really good, in fact. And over the months that followed, things have only gotten better.

One, the match, yes. We are very good together. And two, yes, we both enjoy and have an aptitude for sex.

But most importantly, we talk about sex—before, during, and after. We ask for what we want. We talk dirty. We “debrief.” It may sound silly, and you may think so much talking would ruin things. But nothing could be further from the truth. The sex is great because we decided it was going to be and because we are committed to one another’s pleasure. It’s as simple—and perhaps as complicated—as that.

It’s the first time in a long time that I have ventured into monogamy, which I think has upped the ante for us both.

All I know is that it’s working. And it’s the kind of sexual adventure— and love—I wish for anyone who is interested in pleasure and discovery first and rules never. We have created a safe space for one another all around, and that is key when it comes to discovering your ultimate orgasm.

I’m not suggesting that it’s easy to be in this place. Not at all. It’s quite hard in some ways, because it’s about being vulnerable and transparent and open to risk, and you have to feel safe and respected in order to be able to do that. It took me a long time to get there. But now that I’m here, the orgasms I’m being rewarded with are well worth what it took to get to this place. I have finally found my ultimate orgasm.