We Asked Women To Share Exactly What They Do To Orgasm
This is how the orgasm fairy tale goes: You meet Prince Charming, and from the very first time, he knows exactly how your body works. There’s some kissing, some foreplay, some moaning and, after maybe 10 minutes of intercourse, bam—a shattering climax for two. Angels may even sing. If your sex life fits this description, kudos. If not, this story is for you.
In reality, women are all over the orgasm map, and in an effort to improve your sex life, we asked dozens of them to reveal what they’ve learned, what they do—and what they’re not afraid to ask for. After reading some of their stories, you’ll abandon your assumptions about the way orgasms are “supposed” to happen. And you’ll stop waiting, like some damsel in distress, for a guy to magically unchain your pleasure. Turns out, of course, that you are your very own knight in shining armor, and this is your road map to a happy ending.
“I Took Things Into My Own Hands”
Having an orgasm during sex used to be hard work, like ditchdigging hard. Regardless of how tireless or well-intentioned the men (and occasionally women) were, things generally went something like this: crazy Kama Sutra-esque positions, then oral sex and finally another gymnastic routine that eventually did the trick. But every orgasm took so much time (an hour-plus) and energy (immeasurable) that afterward my partner and I would collapse. Forget cuddling—we just needed a rest.
I was fed up with the hard-labor orgasm. So I decided desperate times called for desperate measures: Enter my no-fail DIY technique.
One Saturday, after a charged night of flirting, my date, Nick,* and I went back to his place. As we were having sex, I shyly slipped my hand southward to stimulate myself, and held my breath to see how it would go over. Was this like beating your date at arm wrestling—just not advisable, even if you were more than capable?
But Nick was, to put it mildly, really enthusiastic. And so was I minutes later, when I had a body-rocking orgasm. After that, I never hesitated again. Now I have easy-as-pie orgasms whenever I want, and I have yet to be with anyone who doesn’t think my technique is superhot!
“I Got Over Being a Size Queen”
I used to say to my girlfriends, “There are two types of women: size queens and liars.” Because I’d generally had orgasm success with larger-than-average men, I saw no reason to rethink my position. Until I met Mark.*Even fully clothed, he was like the little teapot—short and stout, but he was warm and made me feel better when I was down. Mark was also persistent, and by the time I realized what was happening, I was falling in love with my just-a-friend. Something close to panic set in, though, when I figured out that I was dealing with 4.5 inches on a good night. Sensing my reluctance on the evening we both knew would be our first time having intercourse, he went slowly. Foreplay had always made me impatient. But he found new erogenous zones (elbows—who knew?!). His mouth wandered lower as I stretched out on the bed, humming with anticipation. And then it happened.
I had never had an orgasm from oral sex and was blown away by the power of it. Immediately after that, we had sex, and it was incredible. Not once did I wonder, Is it in yet? or, What’s a quicker escape route, the stairs or the window?
Teapot and I are no longer together, but after that night I retracted my earlier declarations. It’s not about size—it’s about knowing how to use what you’ve got.
“I Finally Committed”
My husband and I didn’t have that boy-meets-girl, fall-in-love-and-get-married kind of romance. Instead, what we had was fractured and complicated, emotionally draining and ill-timed. And for the years that we swam upstream against our intense connection, it was the sex—the sweaty, hotter-than-July sex—that held us together. Yet even with such an otherworldly chemistry, I only occasionally had an orgasm with him. What’s up with this, I would wonder, confused, each time it didn’t happen—I’m as sensual as they come.
It hadn’t dawned on me yet, the correlation between my emotions and my ecstasy. My body knew what my mouth would never say, and so it stood subconsciously guarded, unable to “go there,” because who really knew how this would all turn out?
Fast-forward two sons and three years of marriage later. Funny how fully committing and peeling back emotional layers free up the real orgasm muscle, the brain. The more routine (yet connected) our relationship became, the more frequent and outrageous my big O. Today, it’s not just that I trust him; I’ve also dared to trust myself—to step out on faith, to give my heart to another, to let myself believe.
A few months ago, I talked my husband into taking one of those cheesy, over-the-counter male performance enhancer things for my birthday. Well, after he got over thinking he was going to die—boing!—I had every kind of orgasm possible, far more than any woman should have in one session. Enough to make up for the ones I didn’t have over the years. Enough to prove to me that trust may be the greatest aphrodisiac of all.