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Clitoris Sparkles: Unpacking the Junk

September 27, 2018 by Tricia

“Oh yeah, I have to turn the rest of my clitoris on.”

That’s the thought I had right before my most intense, self-induced orgasm in memory. I focused inward, behind the lips of my vulva, and consciously connected the pleasure receiver in my brain to the long legs of my clitoris, called the corpus cavernosum, and deeper, to the vestibular bulbs, which surround my vaginal opening. I shivered as I recognized pleasure messages from my whole clitoris at once, and pressure started building. Once I tuned in to the right body parts, I could tell I was already quite swollen. As I felt electricity tumbling into my clitoral organ, the sensations spiraled up, each moment heightened by the last in a positive feedback loop. I eased into my release, an empowering moment for me as I gently reassured myself that it was OK to feel so good.

Intense orgasms have not always come so easily for me.

A few weeks ago, before sex, I had some high-CBD cannabis (14% CBD, 6% THC) through my vaporizer. I spent a few stony minutes lazily, nakedly musing, waiting for Beard Man to get back from the bathroom. I visualized the full shape of the clit, and focused on feeling it within my body. Zing! It was like electricity sparkled through the clitoral legs and vestibular bulbs. Not an orgasm, but an energetic flow, a crackle of firework tentacles curling through my soft tissues. Something had ignited. My orgasm tangibly emanated from from my full clitoris that night, and not just the little bud, or glans. For a deeper understanding of the whole clitoris, check out this post.

Why couldn’t I feel my full clitoris before? For one thing, I was ignorant of its existence. “Vagina” was used frequently in my childhood home, and while I am grateful my parents avoided euphemisms and pet names for genitalia, “clitoris” and its pleasurable possibilities were a talking taboo. At the age of eight, my mother told us we’d have a new sibling, baby number four. Dad had always said we kids were “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, and no Mo’!” Get it? So when we found out about “Moe” I was confused. “I thought you were just going to have three kids,” I told my mom at bedtime one night. She told me the new baby had been an accident. “An accident? What do you mean, did Dad roll over on you in the middle of the night, in his sleep?” I understood the mechanics, kind of. Mom explained that people had sex because they are married, and married people like to do that. Sex wasn’t just for making babies.

Ohhh.

Secondly, my body was not mine to touch, anyway. It was for my future husband. My parents’ prohibition on body self-exploration stifled my burgeoning sexuality in ways I’m not sure they could have understood, unless that was the intended effect. I touched myself in shame through my pre-teen years, discovering varied sensations and eventually had an orgasm from the glans of my clitoris. That was as far as my hidden shame would let me go – rub hard, fast, and surreptitiously, to come with a quick burst that hopefully even God wouldn’t notice.

Fast forward to early marriage. Beard Man and I were married in our evangelical church, where we served with deep dedication and conviction. We’d gone through premarital counseling at church and read Christian books with sex tips like: female orgasm is not required, and women are often satisfied with the sensation of fullness. So when we had sex on our wedding night, I was fully prepared to expect…nothing. Beard Man was always savvy enough to rub my clitoris glans, but when tiny pinches twinged deeper within me, I subconsciously had to choose whether I would accept what my body could do. Wading through a quicksand of social morays and conditioned fears, I believe I shut off the possibility of more pleasure because my internal conflict was too great.

A few years past our awakening out of religion, Beard Man and I had let go of most of the trappings of that life, but I still carried the shame. Things changed when I brought cannabis to our bedroom. While high, I can remove the mental filters that separate me from my body, and consciously experience orgasms from my whole clitoris, the G-spot, the A-spot, and my cervix, provided I remember to turn them on and connect.

 

 

Coming from the C-spot: Discovering Cervical Orgasms

August 8, 2018 by Tricia

Still a bit breathless, I explained to Beard Man that I’d felt a new sensation, a rhythmic pulsing, almost orgasmic, but way up high, by my cervix. What was this dark sexual magic? I’ve long been acquainted with my clitoris, and more recently the G-spot and the A-spot, but what in the ME was this? In our post-coital stony conversation I described it this way:

“Hmmm….well, I feel so clearly now, that now, I know, in myself, where my G-spot is. The A-spot is pretty clear too. It’s like right on the edge of my pubic bone there. Okay, even talking about it right now, I’m settling into just like a warm, fuzzy feeling in that spot…Um, but then this was something different. This was like WAY up in there, like I almost wasn’t sure if part of the glans was against my cervix, like flicking the edge of my cervix or something? Or if it was this toward my front, but, it was like I could feel an orgasm emanating from that spot. And, I wanna call it the U-spot, but I have no reason to call it that other than some odd, varied, fake varied (pretty sure I meant vague) memory from some article, ages ago. I suppose I have this Google thing.”

It’s not called the U-spot. I was high.

I tucked the experience away, hoping to repeat it, still not knowing exactly what had happened. Based on sex ed class and teenage colloquial discussions, I’d believed the vagina to be sensitive only the first couple of inches in from the opening. Did my belief in limited sensation near my cervix prevent me from consciously feeling anything other than pressure? Cannabis removes my mind’s limitations on my own pleasure, so when I use cannabis therapeutically, I can mentally take a step back from the broad idea of what I think I should be feeling, and step into the nuanced sensations actually going on within my body.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve appreciated online content from Dr. Lindsey Doe, a clinical sexologist. Her channel, Sexplanations, leaves no sexual stone unturned, balancing research-based content with hilarious demonstrations in a refreshingly open, shame-free way. This video had a lot to say about errogenous zones that were new to me. The C-spot. Ah, that’s it! That’s my new up high spot. I’ve heard that knowledge is power, but when it comes to our bodies, knowledge is also pleasure.

Dr. Doe didn’t go into a great amount of detail about the orgasmic potential of the C-spot, but the video confirmed that my sensations were not a trick of my THC brain. It gave me a place to start searching for more information. When I mentioned my C-spot experience to a friend, she said the phrase “cervical orgasm”. She’d had a boyfriend in the past whose penis was curved in a way that always gave her cervical orgasms. Hmmm. There’s something to this, I thought – time to Google. A quick search led me to blogger Kim Anami, who, in her post, The Holy Grail of the Cervical Orgasm, puts it this way:

The clitoris generally has a refractory period. Meaning, women need to rest before they can have more of these orgasms. And they often feel like after one, they have had enough for the session.

Not so with the cervix.

It’s designed for the long haul.

You can have several/many/an infinite number in a row.

So the ecstasy just keeps coming.

The whole post is powerful prose to the cervical orgasm. Kim believes that all women can experience this type of pleasure from their vaginas. Through total sexual re-education, a conscious effort to thwart shame, and a lot of weed, I’m finding my way to a deeper sexual experience. In my opinion, there is too much pain in the world to ignore the possibility of more pleasure.

Have you had a cervical orgasm? Do you want to?

Pipes over Potatoes: a guide to starter paraphernalia

July 4, 2018 by Tricia

Some people have a can-do attitude. I’d like to think I do also, but if I’m being honest, I have more of a make-do attitude. Raggedy or outdated clothing turned into a fashion statement, random leftovers into a palatable culinary experiment. Based on the wisdom of my favorite chef, Alton Brown, and my inclination toward minimalism, I also tend to eschew “unitaskers”, or items that are good for only one job, like those ridiculous plastic banana slicers. Have they not heard of a fucking knife? Anyway, I thought of weed grinders and pipes as unitaskers. Surely I could use something I already had at home to prepare and smoke weed. Every once in awhile, it’s worth proving that we really do learn the most from our mistakes.

When I found myself in a newly-recreationally-legalized dispensary on Alberta Street in early 2016, I was lightheaded with that rule-breaking sensation, the bottoms of my feet tickling and my lungs taking quick half-breaths. Perhaps I was also just a little bit contact high – the establishment was piney and pungent. For moral support, I had persuaded my out-of-state guests, my dear former roommate Dee, and her girlfriend, to come along with me. We were giddy from the heady aromas, and the wonderment that comes from new freedoms, experiencing firsts. The luxury of walking into a storefront for federally-illegal herbs in a hip Portland shopping district was not lost on us. Our faces hovered above several jars of pretty green bud, and we pretended to have an idea of what the right strain would smell like. Dee’s girlfriend threw her head back in horror at a strain called Dogwalker. A euphemism for dog shit in a bag, we all agreed. We made our way home with 3 grams of buds that smelled less like feces, and more like pineapple, supposedly. Dog shit stench still stung our olfactories.

I’d been offered a grinder at the dispensary. No thanks, I’ll use my mortar and pestle. A pipe? Nah, we’ll figure something out. Dee had cut a hole in an apple before with success. Finally, my make-do ways had met their match. Cannabis is no penny-pincher’s bitch. Good buds are tight and slightly sticky, not brittle. My mortar and pestle just squashed the buds, and did not break them up into smaller pieces like we’d hoped. Fuck. Okay, we’ve got this – we tore the buds up with our fingers as delicately as we could, hoping we wouldn’t knock off too many trichomes, the sticky resin-coated hairs that held precious THC molecules. Then, dismayed, we discovered we were fresh out of apples. Double fuck. How about a potato? Sure, it was almost the same, thing, we decided. Dee grabbed a knife and started carving a bowl. I handed her a skewer to create a tunnel to a mouthpiece and a carb hole on the side. It was a spudly work of art. We laughed at ourselves as we tried to light our potato-juice weed with a long-stemmed grill lighter. If you want to feel cool in a decidedly uncool way, I’m your gal.

We may not have actually gotten high that night, or at least not much. But we learned a lot, and played Cards Against Humanity with abandon anyway. It would take me a few more tries, and the purchase of a little lopsided glass pipe before I really got the hang of smoking. I’ve also learned to discern those wide-ranging pot smells, from compounds called terpenes, and learned to love (most) of the stinky ones.

Friends, just buy a tiny grinder and a cheap pipe. Your investment of $20 or less will save your pot from destruction by produce. I promise. Or, as an even easier alternative, pick up a pre-roll for $5, and for the love of goddess, standard lighters are in every corner store. Respect the plant, and get yourself the right gear. Making do can lead you to do some stupid shit with your pot(ato).

 

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