I had my first real orgasm in Costa Rica, just four months after my 38th birthday. Please believe, I've busted my share of nuts in my teens and 20s. But none were like this. I remember neither the suspenseful Before nor the delirious After of those prior. But in that room, under the ephemeral chime of 50 Black women coming, I, too, arrived. The rolling chorus of ecstatic cries invited me to a hidden part of myself.
Unlike every eruption before that, nothing came out this time. That is to say, I didn't ejaculate; I wasn't even hard. I wasn't ginning up heat in my loins or having sex. Just drawing deep breaths led me to another plane. I felt pleasure surge from my toes into my spine and through my behind. It was like getting massaged from the inside. A 10-watt electric purr swirled from cells to skin.
I was learning tantra, the ancient art of breath control and lovemaking. At the yoga resort, the adult students traced historic trauma. We set down parental pains and bawled over romantic regrets. We shared our hopes in love and life.
"I thought this was about coming," I blurted during one session. "They got me telling family secrets and shit."
My partner wanted to show me she was trying to jumpstart our dulling sex life. Seven years had parked us in a shadow of malaise and resentment. We argued all the time, knocking trust loose, battering faith.
"You don't love me,” she’d complain. “I'm not enough for you, and I never was."
"Here you go pointing fingers,” I’d jab back. “I need physical love. Maybe we're not compatible that way."