Britney Spears and the Mysteries of the Super Orgasm
When a sex-cult devotee tried to make me feel more powerful and connected through touch, I couldn’t resist
By Antonia Crane
In our hand-job life together, Tory and I met our clients for in-call sensual massage appointments in her cool, gray studio apartment we called “The Lab.” In the anxious moments before our client arrived, we arranged the lighting. Twinkling white Christmas lights were strung along the ceiling beams in wily twists and a paper lantern sat on the floor glowing soft and rosy. We discussed our soundtrack for the day’s work sessions: Moby or The Kills for me, Britney Spears for Tory. We dressed in our hand-job uniforms: Jean shorts and a ponytail was Tory’s girl-next-door look while I chose a black shirtdress and leggings-with-heels combo like a reformed biker-turned-sexy-yoga-mom. We peeled and ate hard-boiled eggs, sipped coffee, and talked.
That’s when Tory lectured me about getting off.
“I’m in a constant state of orgasm,” she said. Tory explained that she learned this “state” from a sex cult in Northern California, called OneTaste, which is known for its “orgasmic meditation.” They offer classes where a partner learns how to properly stroke a woman’s clitoris for 15 minutes “with no goal other than to feel, connect, and be present,” according to their website. She wanted me to get on board. She paraphrased from the sex cult’s textbook of choice, “Extended Massive Orgasm” by Steve and Vera Bodansky, and referred to the section about progressing toward bliss — being finger banged in this extra-special way — that could move universal energy and even stop wars. She told me the massive orgasm was a revolutionary higher vibration, a readily available power source we could tap into. She urged me to watch some informational DVDs about the unique method of finger banging that her sex cult prescribed. And then she offered to perform it on me.
It’s not unusual for sex workers who team up to share a sexy, sororal bond that can include fondling and kissing, hand washing, spanking, pussy licking, and lots of caretaking. It’s also common for sex workers to adopt some version of a sex-worker-as-healer mentality for reasons of self-esteem, convenience, and entertainment. The idea that sex work can heal, sometimes called “sacred prostitution,” goes back as far as the 5th century BC to civilizations located in the modern day Middle East. A respect for this history along with a can-do attitude can add veneer to the grubbiest of rub-and-tug grinds. Our mentality toward our own work rubs off too, encouraging men to pay exorbitant green to get off. And it’s a feedback loop. In essence, cash sure can make a gal feel special — diva-like, even.
Tory, with all her wacky sex-cult dogma, made our sessions fun and unpredictable. For instance, she believed Britney Spear’s mother, Lynne Spears, lived in her pussy and was directing her to do things like prepare for angels and choreograph our happy endings. What this looked like in session was both of us jerking off our client while Tory hummed “Yes, Lynne” or “ OK, Britney” as she gazed up toward the one slender skylight with her blank blue eyes. This meant she was receiving transmissions from Britney’s Femme Fatale Tour and “moving energy.” It also meant I giggled a lot.
She was so convinced of the power of Britney Spears that I began to wonder if maybe she was right.
At the time, Britney Spear’s super hit single “3” from The Singles Collection was an electro-pop sensation, and her album cover showed her in deliciously rare form: three blond Britneys in stripper heels and outfit, looking strong and suggestive. The lyrics in “3” referenced threesomes in playfully simple lyrics, presenting the ménage à trois as a charming, consumable norm:
One, two, three
Peter, Paul, and Mary
Gettin’ down with 3P
Everybody loves me
Tory played “3” loudly and sang all the words in a near-whisper, nonstop. She believed Britney Spears wrote “3” not only for us but also for sex workers everywhere. She played it from her iPod in The Lab, in her car, at The Four Seasons, and in crappy motels off the 405 freeway near Los Angeles International airport while we provided happy endings to pilots, chefs, and techies. Our clients always achieved orgasm and Britney Spears played a key role, lyrically and rhythmically choreographing their climax. Her sexual slang was on their lips whether they knew it or not. We made sure they came on cue.
And so, finally, I sat back onto the freshly sheeted futon prepped for our client. I didn’t want to hurt Tory’s feelings. “Go ahead,” I told her. “Show me the way.”
She tried for several minutes but her finger banging method was weak. It didn’t make me come or make me want to fuck.
According to a recent article in the Scientific American by Kayt Sukel, many factors contribute to a woman’s ability to orgasm. First, there is an array of neurochemical fireworks linked to desire and arousal: dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and testosterone. Other palpable things prevented me from having an orgasm, too. Tory’s fingers were too cold. I felt rushed and pressured, nervously expecting a text message alerting us that our client Dennis had arrived. Tory smelled like Parliaments with a Listerine Cool Mint breath strip chaser. I am allergic to cigarette smoke. It’s no shocker I couldn’t come.
In that same article Sukel writes, “The statistics vary, but most sources agree that less than one-third of women consistently reach orgasm during sexual activity.”
Tory’s not alone in her fixation with orgasms. Perhaps the elusive nature of the female orgasm has become an obsession because the mainstream media seeks to control, grow, and direct it. Articles in magazines such as Cosmopolitian often offer ways to have multiple and extended orgasms, along with tutorials to come in 30 seconds or sooner. Others claim to be able to promise the recipe for a 15-minute orgasm. Most of it is centered on the woman being quick and performance-oriented — more like men. What’s the rush? Is this even possible? It is well documented that men can orgasm in less than two minutes, while women tend to require more time.
“It seems like we are expected to meet male standards, or some version of some hypersexual female standard, that is supposed to appeal to our partners,” neuroscientist and sex researcher Nikky Prause says. “In order to do that, we need to make it as easy as possible for our partners to help them feel good about themselves — instead of having demands or requests because our bodies are different.”
As a person who has worked with naked women my entire adult life, it makes sense that women get off in many different ways. Prause told me that there is a lot of variability. Many women need a longer warm-up period, and there is no proof that some women can’t have 40 orgasms in two minutes. But why? And then Prause said something that was sobering: “There is evidence to show that there is a genetic component to orgasms.”
Ladies, you may be having your mother’s orgasm.
Therefore, Britney Spears may just be having Lynn Spears orgasm. Tory was not far off-base.
I’ve never faked an orgasm — not with anyone who mattered. And I wonder if my mother ever faked one, but I never got to ask her before she died.
What I do know is I don’t come from a long line of horndog women. The women in my family married the first or second man they ever screwed. I learned everything about what was sexy from watching my two older cousins, Rhonda and Sam. I watched them dress for the county fair. They would lie on their bed to zip their too-tight bell-bottom Gloria Vanderbilt jeans that showed their pointy pelvic bones, slick with baby oil. They put on matching rainbow-striped tank tops with a single rose and “A Touch of Class” in script across the chest — no bra. Sam placed a big blue comb in her back pocket and smeared Dr. Pepper-flavored Lip Smackers on her delicate lips. She had a “#1 Sister” charm on a gold chain that fell on her collarbone that looked identical to Rhonda’s — which is exactly like mine yet subtly different, like my mother’s. My cousins exemplified 70s sexy, but I don’t know if that ever translated to real satisfaction or intimacy.
Our lack of understanding about female pleasure reflects our society’s failure to recognize and respect women’s sexuality. Our similarities, our differences, the ways we learn about sex, and our requirements in order to orgasm are subtle and varied. Instead of insisting upon a super, Olympic-fast orgasm, perhaps we can simply learn how to play our own instrument well and enjoy the music along the way, whether it’s Britney Spears or The Kills.
Antonia Crane is a writer, performer, and instructor living in Los Angeles. She is the author of a memoir, “Spent” (Barnacle Books/ Rare Bird Lit). She has written for The New York Times, The Believer, The Toast, Playboy, Cosmopolitan, Salon, The Rumpus, Electric Literature, and DAME, among others. Her screenplay, “The Lusty” (co-written by writer-director Silas Howard), based on the true story of the exotic dancer’s labor union, is a 2015 recipient of the San Francisco Film Society/Kenneth Rainin Foundation Grant in screenwriting. She is at work on an essay collection and another memoir.
