The first time I had sex I was 20 years old, which was old enough to know first times usually don’t feel that great, so I didn’t get my hopes up. It wasn’t a shock when I didn’t orgasm; it’ll probably take some time to figure out what works for me, I reasoned, and I tried to focus on learning what those things were. Besides, I had waited until I was in a relationship with someone I really liked — I decided to bask in how good that felt, how not-nervous I’d been. Surely it would all come together with time.
Months spilled into years and that boyfriend moved away, but sex always went the same no matter who it was with: The pleasure would build and build, but I could never seem to reach the storied O. If I had balls, they would’ve been indigo blue. Intimacy was like an EDM song that crescendos endlessly, overwhelming the senses, and then, in the most unsatisfying way, the noise just cuts out.
For a while I wondered if maybe I was really orgasming, but when compared to the wild moaning and showiness of movie scenes, it just seemed like I wasn’t. Sometimes it felt like maybe there was a little bit of release, and wasn’t it possible that my orgasms were just different from other people’s? We tend to think the people around us are having more sex and better sex than we are; why would the orgasm part be any different?
Still, I sought out my missing orgasm. I talked to my husband and we tried everything we could think of, from indulging in fantasies to lengthening foreplay. In Type A fashion, I read Come As You Are and Becoming Orgasmic. I signed up for the viral OMGYES women’s pleasure program at the recommendation of Emma Watson (a hysterical sentence now that the cultural moment has passed) and dutifully completed every lesson. It definitely taught me a thing or two, but still, the big release of an orgasm eluded me.
So off to sex therapy I went. I talked to the therapist and did her worksheets and ultimately got absolutely nowhere, other than feeling like it was my lot in life to never cum at all. I dedicated myself to enjoying sex for what it was for me — a lot of stuff that felt really good, all of which deepened my connection to my partner — and put orgasms out of my mind.
A few years later, I became a mom. I had a vaginal birth that went incredibly smoothly, for which I counted my lucky stars. I needed a stitch or two for a first-degree tear, and yes, things looked visually a little different down there, but at my six-week checkup I got the all clear to resume normal life (meaning intimacy).
That night, I was back in my 20-year-old mindset again, feeling the tiniest bit nervous for my first time post-birth, but also completely comfortable in trying it with my husband. I had no expectations and knew it maybe wouldn’t feel the best, but I wanted to see what it would feel like.
And I… well, I orgasmed.
There was no mistaking the warm and weighty buildup of pleasure, but for the first time, it crested over into actual release. It felt amazing and overwhelming and maybe not as dramatic as the movies, but let’s just say I finally understood the hype. My husband and I were both shocked but elated.
Immediately I took to Google to see if this was something other women had experienced, but everything I read pointed me to articles about women “losing” their orgasms after delivery, not finding them. Even researching my experience now, years later, I can’t find anyone online talking about this happening to them. Painful sex, dulled pleasure, complete loss of libido — these were what the majority of people experienced.
All I can do is theorize. Maybe birth finally connected my brain to my pelvic floor in a way it wasn’t before. Maybe pushing out a nearly 8-pound baby helped those muscles tense or relax in just the right way. Maybe there were enough small structural changes deep within my inner workings that finally helped me unclench enough to have the big O — I really don’t know. When I brought it up with my OB-GYN, she didn’t have much insight either.
Obviously I can’t recommend giving birth as a treatment for anorgasmia (the medical term for the inability to orgasm despite sufficient stimulation); children are notoriously bad for their parents’ sex lives. But for me, giving birth finally unlocked my ability to orgasm. Now I’m good for one about nine times out of 10, probably because my husband and I practiced what feels good for me for so many years. I may never know what changed or why; I’m just glad to be in the big O club now.
