Um, I Just Had a Totally Spontaneous Hands-Free Orgasm

Even if such a thing was possible -- an orgasm with no genital contact of any kind -- it seemed like something that would take years of Tantric study, lots of candle-lit OM-ing and lifetimes of good karma to learn.

Dec 4, 2012 at 11:00am | Leave a comment

I was just lounging on the sofa, watching "Project Runway." No hands. No friction. No kidding.

I’d heard about female spontaneous orgasm. On the believability scale, it ranked somewhere between “highly unlikely” and “urban legend,” nestled in a sweet spot just between undocumented rumors of spontaneous human combustion and that email going around claiming a Brazilian woman’s stomach exploded when she ate a pack of Mentos with a Diet Coke. 

Even if such a thing was possible --an orgasm with no genital contact of any kind -- it seemed like something that would take years of tantric study, lots of candle-lit OM-ing and lifetimes of good karma to learn. 

I certainly didn’t think Tim Gunn would have anything to do with it.  

There I was, lying on my sofa watching TV. I was lounging in my furry green Muppet pajamas, had just eaten half a bag of “reduced-guilt” potato chips, and was nursing a Diet Coke. 

When I got this feeling. 

Kinda warm. Tingly. 

Hm. That’s odd.  

They’d just announced this week’s design challenge, “candy couture.” The designers would have to make garments out of candy! Oooh, fun! I love the unconventional challenges!

But, there it was, that feeling again. Low, deep, liquid. 

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What on earth? Why was it that while designers were shopping at “Mood,” I was inexplicably feeling in the mood? I wasn’t THAT excited by the prospect of watching someone hand glue PEZ to muslin!

Where was this coming from?  I thought. I realized that the last time I had been on this sofa, I was kissing someone. Someone new. It was all very G-rated and lovely, this sweet, fully-clothed kissing, right there, on this sofa. 

It would have been easy to reach down and give myself a hand. But, that wasn’t really my desire at the moment. My desire was to marvel at red licorice being sewn onto a skirt in panels!

They sure look like Twizzlers, not Red Vines. And look, isn’t that clever? Someone made a collar out of blue gummy sharks and--

WOAH! Mmm. There it is again, that feeling. A deep, pervasive burn. Butterflies building. Not just down there. All around. Arms, legs, face. A kind of heat, lifting.

Tim is telling one guy to “make it work!” but I’m thinking Nina Garcia is just going to hate that his use of foil-covered chocolates--

OH  MY GOD, what the hell? I’m on top of a low-rolling wave, this buoyancy; a building. I couldn’t deny it anymore: I was turned on as fuck. And, maybe on another occasion, I would have taken the unexpected moment and fetched my bedside Pocket Rocket, and been done with it. But the designers and models were all just sent to L’Oreal Paris make up room! I had my priorities! I didn’t want to bother. 

And do you know what I thought of next? Tornados.

I grew up in Ohio, and was always taught that if a twister was coming, you open all the windows to let the storm pass through the house. Move through it. I had this conscious thought: What if I didn’t do anything? What if I just let this energy move through me? What if I could simply feel whatever this was, allow the momentum to carry me without assisting, intervening or manipulating? 

And, that’s what I did. That’s when I felt it begin in earnest -- a quiver beneath my navel, blossoming. That wave spread up and out and down and as God as my witness, I had a full-on, middle-of-sex, whole-body, leg-shaking, arms flailing, breath-robbing, vocal, glass-shattering orgasm. 

“You are the winner of this challenge.” 

I lay there for a full commercial break, eyes wide open. Slack-jawed. Did that really just happen? 

Michael Kors’ voice began ruining my transcendental afterglow.  I turned off the TV before Heidi Klum could give her auf wiedersehen. I needed to be alone in the stillness and silence a while, before laughing hysterically, and asking aloud to the universe: a) how did that happen? And b) what did that mean? 

I Googled “spontaneous orgasm” and was shocked at how little I could find. Oh, there’s plenty on male spontaneous orgasm (i.e., wet dreams) but zero to nil real information about female spontaneous orgasm.  

The only mentions I found were a few mostly unanswered questions on random message boards and lame forums. There was a single Go Ask Alice reference, and after some searching, I did find a something on Wise Geek, of all sites, which offered what I sensed to be some kind of dusty old male doctor’s definition: 

“Some women may experience spontaneous orgasms while participating in common activities such as riding a bike or a horse, exercising or simply wearing tight clothing, because all of these actions can cause friction against the clitoris and vulva.”

Really. Really? This was a far cry from my experience, and -– well -- “Whoopsie! There I go again! Rubbing my clitoris up against my pantyhose! Wheee!”

Not only did it have nothing to do with my experience, but somehow, this didactic accounting for spontaneous orgasm felt patronizing; it may well have found it written circa 1904 in a medical journal for the treatment of “female hysteria;” and could well be used as an argument for “why ladies must not be allowed to wear trousers! This is the kind of trouble it leads to!”

I knew something profound had happened. I didn’t need a technical or medical breakdown; I needed a deeper, more personal investigation. 

I had recently broken up with someone I had credited with giving me the most magnificent orgasms of my life. EVER. This was the sex I’d been waiting for have my whole life. I’d be lying if I said part of the devastation wasn’t because I was convinced I would never have that kind of sex again. 

In my despair, someone had said to me, “Sarah, you’re giving him too much credit. You are 50 percent of that equation.” 

Oh.  

Right, but let’s say he brought out that 50 percent in me, I argued. Maybe that was still there somewhere, but how was any other man ever going to access that, or help me access that, again? 

Then, I watched Project Runway on the couch in my Muppet Pajamas. While someone selected a pair of red stilettos from the Lord & Taylor accessory wall, I thought of a tornado, and a single kiss. And in that one whirlwind of inexplicable ecstasy, I realized I didn’t need anyone else.  I was not unlike Dorothy. She always had the power to go home; I had the power to come.