Operation Orgasm: The Student Becomes The Master

I’ve never been a rule person. Breaking any and all guidelines for being a good kid was my thing. Screw conformity. I’m scaling the fence as my brain registers the “No Trespassing” sign. Unabashedly. Tell me I’m not allowed to go there, and I’m doing everything in my power to figure out why, and then do it. Not always a good system in the real world, but sometimes, it’s the perfect mindset that allows us to experience things we never thought possible within the space of freedom in our mind.

Ever since I learned the difference between pink and blue booties, I’ve been curious about my sexuality. Not in such a way that at the tender age of sand boxes and jungle gyms I was dry humping my living room pillows, this was more of a conscious effort to learn all I could about every inch of my body.

Long before my b-cupped funbags made their first appearance in 1988 (I have since removed my implants in 2001), as a preteen I began to explore my other female lady goods. I was fascinated. The fact that I had actual baby-making equipment inside me was a trip. Using a hand mirror to investigate every inch of myself, I was in awe of that place – that sacred part of womanhood that no one talked about  – my personal No Trespassing place.

Orgasm

A product of Catholic school and a bat-shit crazy mom of her own, my mother made painstaking efforts to never discuss down there, and if she ever did, she always gave it a cartoon name like Fuffy, or Pee Pee. I didn’t get it. It’s my body and I wasn’t allowed to ask questions or even acknowledge its existence?

This is bullshit.

By the time I was in high school, my body and me were dialed in with one another. And thanks to a perfect storm of personal curiosity, longing to connect with this incredible flesh vessel of mine and one share-everything-with friend, my life changed forever one summer.

Leah and I were both seventeen and had way too much fun breaking rules together. She was also the kind of friend you wanted to hang with after too many wine coolers. We’d spend hours gabbing about sex, sharing our limited experience, and thinking that just because we boned a couple of dudes, we were the shit.

“The kissing part is fun, but I don’t get the big deal about sex.” I confessed with the shrug of my shoulders.

“So, you didn’t… come?” The look on Leah’s face was priceless. Far removed from judgment, plastered with excitement. She was bursting out of her ESPRIT Sweatshirt, actually squealing.

“I thought just the guys…” My face tilted to one side, my voice turned up. “…you mean we can, too?”

“YES! We can too! You just gotta know your body!” She squealed.

Our conversation dove further into the complexities of penis vs. vagina (like we knew anything about joy-sticks). And when I woke up the next day, I flew into the bathroom, ready for my first assignment.

You just gotta know your body.

When you don’t know what you’re missing, it’s kinda weird to be so pumped in your quest to find it. But after hearing Leah’s declaration of how awesome having a Lady O was, I was dying to go there as quickly as possible.

BathTub

The stream of water was foreplay. My ass scooted under the faucet and directly on top on the drain, head gently resting on the floor of the tub, feet pointed to the sky, knees slightly bent. Operation Orgasm was underway. As the warm water trickled on to my sweet spot, I began to feel silly – not to mention anxious with the water slowly rising. But this new feeling of warm water in new places had me optimistic that I would finish long before the water reached my ears.

Remembering what Leah said about relaxing and being in tune with how good it would feel, I closed my eyes and went there. My mind wandered to Mickey Rourke in my [then] favorite movie, 9 ½ Weeks (still does sometimes) and it was ON. Fifteen minutes later it was on again. And again. And, well, you know where this is going.

The next time I had sex with my guy, I knew exactly what I needed to do in order to make my body quiver with pleasure. More importantly, I knew how to communicate with my partner so he could take me back to land of ‘Oh!’. Most teenage boys could give two shits about their gal finishing – they’re just happy someone else is in the room. But I got lucky. My fella was into me getting off as much as he did. We even got to a point where we could ride the wave together (Hey Brett, if you’re reading, call me).

They say things get better with time, and when it comes to rubbing one out – how true, how true.

But first, we need to climb our fences of inhibition. Face the uncomfortable, awkwardness of touching ourselves – alone – in the privacy of our personal space.

For some women masturbating is forbidden to do, much less discuss. Others are completely comfortable talking about and regularly going at it. There’s a scene in Sex and the City (television series, not movie) when Samantha asks Charlotte if she’s ever seen her vagina up close with a hand-mirror, which got me thinking, I wonder how many of us have?

Thanks to my friend Leah and her wonderful friendship and encouragement, I was able to explore and take myself to my pleasure zone. In many ways, and in record-breaking numbers (I never left my room that summer). This inevitably led to mind-blowing sexscapades with a handful of fabulous partners through the years. And all because I dared trespass the one place so many of us women feel ashamed to explore.

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We are all a product of our upbringing. And with no disrespect to religious practices, beliefs, or parental rules – when you get to a certain age in your young adult life, as a woman especially, it’s so important to blaze your own trail, tear down that “No Trespassing” sign, grab your mental magic marker and write “Welcome” all over it.

And if you’re lucky enough to have a friend to share your personal experience with, call her up immediately. Chances are, she’s got a story for you too.

Christine Macdonald

What is a Spiritual Person (Re-post from Elizabeth Gilbert)

Sometimes you read something that hits so close to home, you just have to share.

elizabeth-gilbertOne of my fave authors, Elizabeth Gilbert, posted this on her Facebook page.  Her views on spirituality and religion mirror my own, and I wanted to re-post some of her words here (full post can be found on her Facebook page), as an homage to her beautiful heart and mind.

Thanks, EG. You rock.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“When you Google “Spiritual Person”, sure enough, up comes this imagine, which I have posted below. Here we have the iconic image of the pristine and calm and perfectly balanced and totally healthy, fresh from her latest juice fast, meditating on the edge of an infinity pool – like nobody in history ever did, EVER.

Why is that perfect spiritual lady always depicted meditating on the edge on an infinity pool in absolute serenity, I wonder?

(No, I’m wrong – to be fair, that perfect yoga lady isn’t always depicted meditating on the edge of an infinity pool; sometimes she’s sitting on a bolder at the top of a mountain, and sometimes she’s sitting on a beach at sunset…but she is always shown in a state of graceful meditation, and she’s always thin and lovely, and you know she has a super hot vegetarian boyfriend, and her back doesn’t hurt, and she has never taken antidepressants or farted.)

I don’t recognize that person. By which I mean – I’ve never met her.

Because that person in that picture doesn’t exist. She is an icon – a holy relic, painted by our imaginations. (I don’t mean that the model is not real, by the way; the model is an absolutely real human being with failings and desires and suffering and hope. I mean that the picture is not real.)

The spiritual icon in this picture has never had too much wine. She’s never dropped an f-bomb at the wrong moment. She’s never said something regretful on Twitter. She’s never lost her temper. She’s never acted like a total asshole. She’s never been over-sensitive to criticism. She’s never woken up ashamed at how much she gossiped the night before about a good friend. She’s never judged anyone, she’s never attacked herself, she’s never cried in the middle of the night for no reason, she’s never failed horribly, she’s never let herself down. She’s never stopped to eat McDonald’s on her way home from the health food store (I have!). And she’s damn sure she never tried to sing “Dead or Alive” at karaoke and realized half way through the sing that she actually can’t sing “Dead or Alive” – but then decided to keep singing it anyway, EVEN LOUDER.

 

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Yes, this lady at the edge of the infinity pool is what we think of, I guess, when we think of a “spiritual person.”

But that’s not what I believe a spiritual person is. I believe a spiritual person is somebody who is aware of a larger divinity in the universe (a source of power that operates behind and beyond all that we can see) and who wants to get as close to that divine source as possible.

I think sometimes people get mad at me for doing “a spiritual person” wrong, because they have me mistaken for “a religious person.” They believe that when I curse or drink wine that I am violating the code of conduct appropriate for a religious person – particularly for a prominent religious person, which (weirdly) people sometimes believe I am supposed to be.

But a spiritual person is not the same as a religious person.

Religion is about following certain rules regarding God; spirituality is about longing for certain experiences with God.

Religion is a way that you must behave; spirituality is a way that you long to feel.

Religion is how we talk to God. Spirituality is how we listen.

I myself have never been able to become a religious person, though, because I have not yet found the religious community whose formal rules and beliefs I can completely embrace – and yet I do believe in God, and I believe in majesty, and I believe in miracles, and I believe in our highest possible humanity, and I believe in transcendence, and I believe that my soul has meaning (and I believe that YOUR soul has meaning), and I believe in eternity…and I want to feel all those things in my life as much as possible.

So I pursue – as much as I can – the experiences that will bring me those spiritual sensations.

For the most part, I have not been able to find those sensations while sitting on the edge of an infinity pool in the lotus pose – but if you can find it there, awesome!

I have, however, sometimes felt sensations of spiritual transcendence while sitting in bars, or in bus stations, or in hospital rooms.

I have felt it when I see a friend being brave.

I have felt it when I am forgiven, even though maybe I didn’t deserve forgiveness.

“Spiritual” is not how you talk, or what you eat, or what sort of yoga you practice, or what sort of music you listen to, or how much you weigh, or whether or not you want Botox, or whether you drink red wine or kombucha.

“Spiritual” is believing in the innate divinity of every moment – and believing in the innate divinity of every moment is not something you can do WRONG. All you have to do is step off the edge of the infinity pool, and dive into the REAL infinity pool…which is all around us, sometimes within reach, sometimes out of reach.

I think sometimes people get frustrated with the term “spirituality” because they think it’s too wishy-washy. They think you’re lazy. They think you’re undisciplined. They think you’re unfaithful.

Don’t worry about it.

They don’t know.

They don’t know that there’s nothing lazy whatsoever about this path.

They don’t know that what you’re looking for is nothing less than EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE and ALWAYS.

Keep looking.

Onward,

LG”

 ~ ~ ~

 Your thoughts?

Christine Macdonald

Your Crazy is Showing

Narcissist self portraitSo here’s the thing. I’m crazy.

Not in a Have the Lambs Stopped Crying, Clarice? crazy. But enough to warrant psychotherapy and be excused from the occasional jury duty order (my bright idea that, no doubt will kick my kharma down the road, I’m sure).

So how crazy is my Crazy?

Being an adult entertainer in my former life twenty years ago, grabbing my ankles on stage was just another day ending in “y.” You’d think unveiling my official medical diagnosis to the World Wide Web would be cake.

You’d think.

Pumping the breaks on conclusions jumping off the screen, I’ll say this: I’m happy to report this post isn’t coming from a locked down facility with padded walls. But the mere fact this scene was a vacation fantasy from my life during some of my worst depression days?

There’s the rub.

One of my favorite writing tasks was to sum up my memoir in six words, thanks to friend, Larry Smith and his brilliant Six Word Memoir empire. My post was well received and actually ended up being a feature on his website. Check it:

Ex-stripper turned writer. More exposed now.

So although my comfort in performing in the buff six days a week was in check, I can’t say the same for sharing too many personal details of my mental illness. Let’s just say I have issues (mainly PTSD from childhood and trust issues with men – go figure). I’m sure your working on

Christine Macdonald