Most mornings, I wake up, throw on some tights and a comfy dress, hop on the train to work and zone out to the same songs I always listen to on my iPod.
Other mornings, I wake up with trumpets in my ears, eager to break free from the quotidian rat race and wondering how I could make this day better than all the rest. The solution usually involves eating beets, calling my sister to chat or buying a plane ticket. But lately, I fear only one thing will release that burgeoning Whitman yawp: my G-spot.This is my third attempt to write this; in my first two drafts, I desperately tried to avoid giving up too much about my sex life and my quest for ultimate vaginal satisfaction. It wouldn’t have been worth reading, though, and my reluctance seemed to epitomize the crux of the G-spot dilemma: generally speaking, women—especially those who are sexually experienced and often complimented (hold your applause, please) on their technique in the bedroom—don’t like to talk about it. Statistics show that few of us can get there, and judging by many of my gorgeous, sexually uninhibited friends’ solemn shake of the head “no,” it makes us feel deficient. So, let’s talk about it.
First, I’d like to refer to a G-spot orgasm as a vaginal orgasm. For me, the term “G-spot” has been a bit too Cosmopolitan-ized and is often subject to debate, but I’m hoping we can agree that a vaginal orgasm is the other orgasm, the one that doesn’t involve clitoral involvement. Ever since society began differentiating between the vaginal and clitoral orgasm (many credit this to Freud), the ladies have been condemned to wonder why they can’t achieve the more “mature,” as he put it, of the two. That’s why I was stoked to take this Women’s Health quiz (thank you, Amelia), which states that there are not two, but three types of orgasms: clitoral, vaginal and a combination of the two. All this time I thought I didn’t count. Turns out, I do!
So now you pretty much know. Peaking without even a little stimulation of my more outer parts just isn’t happening. But yet, I’m not short on open, amazing sex. I’m dating a guy who frequently asks me if I want an orgasm for dessert. And when I’m on top or he’s behind me or in other permutations of these positions, I’m aware of the difference between a clitoral orgasm and the combination-of-the-two one. (Surely all women are distinct, but for me, it’s that oh-my-God-I-think-have-to-pee-no-wait-it’s-waaay-better-than-that feeling.) No matter how you climax, it’s hot.
But it can be kind of maddening, too, no? All that strategic body positioning and movement of digits to make sure something is rubbing your clitoris leads to thoughts like, man, this isn’t fair. Some rowdy thrusts and men are usually good to go; meanwhile, to take it to combination level, I have to be super relaxed and horny. Maybe this is why I’ve never been too keen on one-night stands and why guys (I realize I’m generalizing here) seem to revel in them.
I have started to think about it a little differently, though. I realize now that guys can feel deficient, too, if they worry they’re not taking you to the next level. And while the unfairness thoughts still occasionally cross my mind, it’s sexy and fun knowing that something different could await me every time I peak. Lately, I’ve been trying to breathe slowly and more deeply—as if I were in my Vinyasa yoga class—during sex (including sex of the faster, rougher nature). Even if it just can’t happen for me and I will always need some sort of pressure on my clitoris, this—along with a handful of other Laura-and-her-boyfriend-specific sexy-time maneuvers—makes boot knocking way more satisfying.
Sometimes I ask my girlfriends if they have vaginal orgasms, and it’s as if they (and I’m sure I, at times) had the word “dysfunctional” tattooed on their foreheads. Sex culture and expectations can make us feel so small, and this is the kiss of death. I don’t know if all women are actually capable of vaginal orgasms or not, but first thing’s first: enjoy sex your way. I’d argue it’s the most fun activity in my life, so I don’t want to stress out about it. Because when it comes down to it, I can’t fantasize about beets on my way to work.