Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of the Female Orgasm (4 page)

The Art of Sex

Anything you do can be approached as either science or art—including, perhaps most important, sex. The kind of sex we all wish we were enjoying all the time is the kind we have when we approach sex as an art form rather than
a science. The kind of sex that asks us to be open and curious and to follow the experience where it wants to go, rather than forcing it to head in the direction we think it’s “supposed” to go, the direction the recipe
says
it should go in.

And yet most of the time, we treat sex like a science. We develop very strong expectations, anticipating a replicable outcome every time we add water and mix. We believe that “good” sex means one thing—probably something like mutual orgasms and a feeling of intimate connection to our partner—and that if either of the above is missing, the sex is “unsatisfying” or “truly problematic” or, worse yet, simply “good enough.” We ignore the reality, which is that sex itself is messy and inconsistent. It is a force of nature, like my grandma. It is a reflection of life, which means it includes hot and cold, fast and slow, good and bad. Sometimes we want it, other times we don’t. Sometimes we feel close to our partner, other times we feel like they might be a serial killer, for all we know. Sometimes we think they’re the best lover in the world, other times we wish that someone, at some point during their teen years, had taught them how to
kiss,
for crying out loud. Some of us can climax from one touch, whereas others go all night and never “get there.” Some of us remember a time when sex
used
to be great, but we can’t for the life of us remember how to get there again. This is the reality of sex. Sex is not a science; there is no recipe. No matter how many books you read or how many repetitive motions you make, the outcome is not guaranteed. And mere inconsistency is the best-case scenario. The worst-case scenario? You kill the sex with the recipe.

But we’ve never learned to cook without a recipe—in
the kitchen or the bedroom. So when things don’t turn out the way we expect, we find ourselves trying harder. Rather than opening up and letting our sexuality tell us what it wants in that moment, we try harder to comply with the external recipe we’ve been given. Rather than listening for our own desire and following it whether it makes sense or not, we try ever harder to be the good little recipe-follower we were taught to be. Pretty soon we’ve kneaded the dough into a tough, unappetizing lump.

Let’s take the example of orgasm. While men’s orgasms are also an art form, I think we can all agree that they tend to have more of that consistent scientific quality to them than women’s orgasms do. If you’ll pardon me for being blunt, “penis” plus “naked woman” in more cases than not does in fact equal “ejaculation.” But what, then, happens when the recipe doesn’t lead to the desired outcome? When no matter how hard he tries, the recipe—ahem—no longer stands on its own?

And then you’ve got women’s orgasm, which for most of us follows a path much more like
The Artist’s Way
than the scientific method. When observed objectively, women’s orgasm looks very different from men’s orgasm, and it may or may not include a climax. So what happens when we’re following the recipe for “good sex,” and (per usual) it calls for “two climaxes,” and two climaxes are not available?

What happens in either of these cases—and in so many more and different ways where the truth of “no recipe” is revealed—is that sex starts looking like a problem. Because we’re human and we exist in a paradigm of wrong (more on this later), we are trigger-happy when it comes to identifying problems. We are always on the lookout for someone or something to blame. We think there’s something wrong
with us, or with our relationship, or with our partner. The artsy-ness of sex, its frustrating refusal to abide by the laws of mechanics, puts us into the difficult position of wondering why things aren’t going the way they’re “supposed” to be going. Each of us tends to respond in a different way.

Men approach the problem of sex like they’re trying to fix a TV that’s on the fritz. They scratch their heads and try to figure it out. They ask investigative questions, tinker with this and that, and when the screen is still blank, they’ll either become frustrated or zone out altogether.

For women, on the other hand, the tendency is to try to make her sex—and especially her orgasm—
look
a particular way, the way it’s “supposed” to look. We try to live up to the expectations set by Hollywood, and
Cosmo,
and our best friend, Katie (who seems to
always
be having amazing sex, all the freaking time, and who never really gets that
we don’t necessarily want to hear about it
). We put ourselves into the shape of the sex we think we’re supposed to be having, which is modeled on the example of a man’s experience. We spend a lot of time in our heads, wondering if we’re doing it right, concentrating very hard on “getting somewhere”—“somewhere” being synonymous with “climax.” We think about what sounds we should be making while we’re getting there, whether they’re “right” or not. We wonder what our partner will think if we’re not communicating via the aforementioned sounds that we’re having a mind-blowingly rocking time. And what if the elusive climax never happens? In moments of desperation, or sheer exhaustion, we’re sometimes tempted to fake it. Why not? Some of us feel like we’re faking the whole thing anyway, starting with our interest in having sex in the first place. The result is that we distance ourselves from our
desires, from our direct experience of sex, and in the end, from our orgasm. Some women have gotten so far away from their own authentic orgasm that they don’t even think they
have
one. Which is a major concern, since for women especially,
frequent access to the pleasure of orgasm is the key to finding joy, nourishment, and sustainable happiness.
(How’s that for a statement you don’t hear every day?)

“I’ve always been a sexual person, but for a long time I didn’t feel like it was appropriate for me as a woman to have a really intense sexual appetite. So I ended up focusing on the guy’s experience instead of my own. I got really good at performing. I would think, ‘Oh, we’re fucking. Does he like it? Should I do this or that?’ But Slow Sex has changed that. It’s helped me feel each sensation, to notice where I get scared, or when I start to pull away.”

—Margaret

So what’s the solution to the problem of sex? While I was lucky enough to have Grandma teaching me in the kitchen, we don’t have many artistic role models to look to in the bedroom. We are taught sex-as-science from the time we first stumble, fatally embarrassed, through sex ed. It continues right up through adulthood, where we can buy a sex manual for every problem (cementing the notion of sex-as-TV-repair) and fancy accoutrements to dress our little problem child up in. But there are very few sexual mentors floating around, slowly reteaching the Art of Sex to world-weary scientists.

“Very few indeed,” I tell my now-wide-eyed students on that first day of class. “But lucky for you, you just found one.”

A Note on the Exercises in This Book

The exercises throughout this book will ask you to let your sex come out and play—in full view of your partner, with the lights on. My students often look at me like I’m crazy when I tell them to turn toward their partners and simply begin talking about their sexual desire, right here, in the room with a whole bunch of other couples. Am I
mad
?

Maybe, maybe not. What I
am
doing is trying to unfreeze this idea we have that sex is a Very Serious Matter. To drop the recipe we usually use, one that calls for speed, diligence, and the lights being decidedly
off
. At its heart, you might say that’s what Slow Sex is all about: turning the lights back on so we can all see what we’re doing. There’s no doubt it requires some students to step a bit outside of their comfort zones at first. Not a problem. Over the years I’ve watched in wonder as nervous, embarrassed students give themselves permission to let their sexual selves come out and play. Within a matter of seconds, wallflowers come into full bloom as wild, sexy beings they themselves have never seen before. It can happen for you, too. Just have fun with it! In my workshops I invite each student to approach the exercises I give them, and even the practice of Orgasmic Meditation itself, with the spirit of experimentation and play. You’re researching your own experience of sex. What do you like? What could you do without? What did you feel in your body? What were you thinking about? Something about approaching sex as research lightens up the experience and makes it less capital “S” serious. It opens you up to play, to checking out this experience or that one, just because you’re curious.

At the start of each exercise I’ve included the supplies you will need, including whether you’ll need your partner for the exercise, and about how long it will take to complete. There are three exceptions, however. In addition to Orgasmic Meditation itself and other exercises that allow you to practice different aspects of Slow Sex, I have also included three exercises designed to help you translate the philosophy of Slow Sex into your “regular” sex life. These exercises—Slow Oral for Her, Slow Oral for Him, and Slow Intercourse, all found in chapter 8—are less about step-by-step instruction than inspiration. The exercises are intended to ignite a feeling inside of you, a feeling of what Slow Sex is really about. Sink deeply into the sensation they generate when you read them, and use the feeling—rather than the form—to guide you.

Exercise. Sex as a Science, Sex as an Art

This first exercise is a great place to start playing. You and your partner are going to test-drive sex as a science, and then sex as an art. It’s meant to be fun and even a little bit saucy. How far you go is entirely up to you; you can change your mind or ask for something different at any moment. So give yourself permission to explore the unexplored and express whatever comes up with as little censorship as possible.

You’ll need three pillows, your partner, and a journal(s) for this exercise.

Place the pillows in a triangle on top of the bed or on the floor. Choose one pillow to be the “science” seat, one to be the “art” seat, and one pillow just for “listening.” Park your partner on the listening pillow. His job is simply to listen as you let your sex speak, and not get too hot and bothered to stay seated. Don’t feel self-conscious making him do all the listening—he’ll have his turn to talk soon enough!

Start by getting comfy on the science pillow, taking a minute to settle into your body and gather your attention. Then set your intention to research sex as science. Think linear, rational, goal-oriented, detailed, and even mathematical.

Now open your mouth and, using the most scientifically precise language you can muster, give your partner a quantitative recipe for fulfilling your sexual desire. Lay out exact instructions for how you want him to fuck you, with as much specificity as possible. What exactly do you want? Where? How often? For how long?

An example might be, “I want you to find me in the kitchen as I’m preparing dinner on Tuesday night. I want you to push me against the counter, lift up my skirt, and go down on me, alternating between sucking and licking my clit, while tugging firmly on my right nipple.”

Maybe you have a fantasy you’ve always wanted him to fulfill—great, narrate it for him. Maybe you have never really thought about anything like this before—no problem, just start talking and see what comes out. Don’t worry if you start laughing (humor is good!) or get embarrassed (remember, he’s going next!). Keep talking as long as you have something to say.

As your flow of ideas winds down, move over to the “art” pillow. Once again, take a deep breath and gather your attention. You’re in the world of art now—nonlinear, intuitive, emotional, and sensational.

When you’re ready, start describing the
qualitative
feel of the sex you desire. Use motion, emotion, and even sound. Give him all the sensual details. You might say, “I want to feel you all the way inside of me, opening me up from the darkest, deepest corners. I want to feel the heaviness of your body pinning me down, slow and unwavering, fucking the places I’ve never been touched before.”

Whew—I’m getting hot just thinking about it!

Once the flow of ideas slows down, move back to the science perspective and continue speaking your desire, once again using quantitative language. Make sure all the details are on the table. When you feel complete, make one last stop on the art pillow and continue to paint him a portrait of what your desire looks, feels, tastes, and sounds like. Don’t stop until you’ve said everything your desire wants to say.

Let your partner know when you are finished; then, take another moment to breathe and let everything you just said settle in the room. Ask your partner to mirror back to you what he heard you saying. He will then write down your desires from both the scientific perspective and the artistic perspective. (Feel free to help jog his memory if required.)

Once he is finished taking notes, switch positions. Take the listening seat, and have your partner complete the same exercise, starting with sex as science and moving on to sex as art.

When he is finished, be sure to record what you heard him say for future use.

Then have sex. You know you want to.

Advanced Practice

Plan four dates with your partner where you reenact the desires that arose during the exercise. (You have the notes: don’t forget to study!) The dates may be as short as fifteen minutes or as long as a day or night. At the first date, your partner will enact your scientific desires; at the second, you will enact his. Take note of how much sensation, turn-on, and attention you have when you are engaging in “sex as science.” Did everything turn out the way you expected? Did you feel as satisfied as you hoped when it was over? Take time to write in your journal about what you felt and how your expectations were or were not met.