I Tried (and Quit) an Orgasmic Breathwork Class
O***** requires surrender, and I’m not used to surrendering without feeling like I’m losing part of myself
Morgan Jerkins

Morgan Jerkins

Aug 12, 2020·5 min read

This article is part of The Pleasure Principle, ZORA’s ultimate guide to solo s**, self-pleasure, and self-love. Take our S** Survey to share your experiences.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I signed up for an orgasmic breathwork class.

I want to say that I was bored and the title of the class seemed intriguing, but that’s too easy. The truth is that up until that point, I was terribly touch starved. I wasn’t quarantining with anyone, and the last time I was romantically touched by a man was last summer. I was intrigued, and I was also worried that I was using my v******* so much that I was going to burn my nether regions. I knew there had to be other ways to give myself pleasure.

But orgasmic breathwork? I consider myself to be woo woo, but I have my limits. How can someone get off by just breathing? It didn’t make sense, but I figured that if I was ruminating on the class for this long that it piqued my curiosity. And furthermore, what else was I going to be doing during a weekday evening? I was running out of options, so I thought that I might as well.

I felt the air not only moving into my nostrils and down my throat but also through my limbs, my stomach, my pelvic area.

Although I tried not to take this class seriously, I was taking it seriously. I smudged my living room space where I’d participate with palo santo. I lit a candle and waited for the scent of citrus, bergamot, and sandalwood to fill the area. Then at 7 p.m. sharp, I signed into the Zoom meeting with more than 20 other participants and made sure that I kept my camera off. I also kept all the lights off in my living room too. The woman instructor was a Brooklyn-based intuitive healer with long, dark curls and a very encouraging voice. She made sure to cultivate a space that was welcoming for both beginners and experts alike.

As candles flickered behind her and the music played, she guided us through different kinds of breathing. I must admit that I never before thought of breathing, something so second nature, as intricate and interconnected. As the instructor gave us time to breathe on our own, I felt the air not only moving into my nostrils and down my throat but also through my limbs, my stomach, my pelvic area. I was expanding on the inside, moving life in grooves that I had never known or neglected some time ago.

I’d never really paid attention to my breath for long, sustained, concentrated spaces of time. There was a period when I meditated for five to 10 minutes every night, but that only lasted for two weeks. When I used to work out with my personal trainer, she’d always have to tell me to breathe before I finished a set. I didn’t even notice that I hadn’t. I hold so much in my body, and perhaps the class was a reminder that to experience true pleasure, I’d have to learn to release.

But then I started to get uncomfortable. The healer wanted us to start moving our hips and straddle a pillow if we had one near us. I tried to get more in the mood by removing my shirt and bra while gyrating against one of my couch pillows and breathing as best as I could. But nevertheless, I could feel myself pulling away from the self. I was entirely self-conscious about how I looked even though no one was around.

I thought it was foolish that I was so touch starved that I had to resort to h****** a pillow. I wasn’t feeling any pleasure. I was feeling ashamed. I didn’t feel like I was expanding anymore. I felt constricted. Before I knew it, all these thoughts flooded my brain: my traditional Christian background with regards to s** and s********, my heartbreaks, my body insecurities, my dating mishaps, my loneliness. I tried to gather and suppress them, but it was like trying to put a lid on a geyser.

I left the class.

I left right when all of the participants were supposed to be taking their time with all the breathing exercises and movements. I gave up, and I’m not a person who gives up on anything. I forgot all about my body, and I chalked up the orgasmic breathwork class as a failure. There was no o*****. There was no moaning. I hardly felt good. But I did get something from that class — something that was not included in the description: I learned more about the walls I put up for myself.

When I think about pleasure, I think about pure, unadulterated abandon, a respite that I’ve never given myself.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been conditioned to be a well for everyone else in my life. They can take and take and take from me, and I prided myself on being a reservoir for other people’s feelings and experiences even if my water dried up before I had a chance to replenish myself. I don’t know what it’s like to indulge and be fully invested in myself, to believe that I am my own universe unabashedly and decadently. In order for me to fully experience what the orgasmic breathwork class had to offer, I had to surrender, and I’m not used to surrendering without feeling like I’m losing a part of my essence. Perhaps this is a trauma response, but that’s how I’ve protected myself my entire life.

When I think about pleasure, I think about pure, unadulterated abandon, a respite that I’ve never given myself. Not even in the privacy of my own home, where I should feel the safest and most secure. So maybe I didn’t exactly fail because that’s a condemnation of who and where I am on my own personal journey. Instead, it was a lesson and a reflection on how I can discern s***** freedom first and foremost with myself.

I didn’t give up on the class; I gave up on myself at the moment when I could’ve experienced a breakthrough. I’ve been taught in fitness that it’s at the moment of discomfort when your body is changing and breaking down its own limits. I saw my limits, and one day, I want to be able to push, breathe, and gyrate into unknown depths.
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