Countless Orgasms

The self-based orgasm is a physical, mental and chemical – which is to say technical – event. And like all technical events it can be described numerically. A powerful orgasm with someone you don’t particularly care for, or are bored of, or are merely excited by – yourself perhaps – might be a seven or a nine.

The selfless orgasm, on the other hand, although it occurs in the mechanism of the body, is not confined to it. With attention freed from genital tension, emotional violence and excitable mental imagery, the doors of perception swing open and the walls around them crumble, allowing the 99.9935% of sense-information usually excluded from consciousness – the moment and each other in it – to flood in.

Measurement of time and space exists only in the self, and so the self-empty moment can no more be described numerically than a country can, or a day, or a dance (unless rigidly matched against self-defined standards). The proper means of expressing it in words (if you have to) is, like all qualitatively mysterious selfless experience, metaphor.

Sometimes in sex unself is mixed with self which wafts in and out, tensing up in private thought, or gripping in self-informed addiction-aversion, or thrashing about in emotional possession, before being released by a human glance. More often though the reverse is true: spaceless intimacy is instantly replaced with the space-time image of and desire for what is happening; for although, in essence, self and unself in sex are poles apart, and although it is easy to agree that they are, it is as difficult to actually perceive the slinking of self into the mysterious thick of love-making as it is to spot at just what point analysis paralyses grace or a great jam turns cheese.

The self-based orgasm, comprising effort, expectation, fantasy, conditioned drama and the release of tension, is a one-to-ten affair. It can be counted because it cannot be shared; and the consequence of this isolation is ever growing separation between you both.

The selfless orgasm, which is effortless, without any kind of anticipation (and therefore without either preamble or peak) without any kind of fantasy (unselfconscious and therefore unpornographic) and based not on tension and release but on intensifying waves of empty consciousness, is an indisputable sharing of warm pink delicately deliquescing snow, or an ancient fire in an ancient cave, or cascading Callistan waterfalls, or Vivaldi’s Gloria, or a vast ambient underground beehive of glowing golden cells, or Beehoven’s ninth at midnight on a blind galloping thunderstorm horse, or detonating blast waves from the creation of the universe pulsing through your astonishing bodies leaving you, all day, every day, on the beach.

If your love-life is not like this, it is in trouble. Time and space will win.