Q&A: Thanks for Coming

Journalist Mara Altman had accomplished a lot in her twenty-six years, reporting around the world from Bangalore to Bangkok, living in the mountains near Machu Picchu, getting an agent. The one thing she’d never been able to do? Orgasm. Tackling the problem with J-school-alum persistence, Altman met with sexperts and scientists, Betty Dodson and dominatrices, and traveled from S&M basements in Jersey to orgasm communes in California. She details all the highs and lows in Thanks for Coming, a sort of Eat Pray Love for the anorgasmic set. And like the Oprah-sanctioned Love, Altman’s book has met a mixed response.

In one sense, it’s easy to judge her (as Gawker and others have) as a naïve, self-absorbed innocent who can’t reconcile her quest for orgasm with that fact she finds touching herself "mildly disgusting, like a mushy banana." But for women who do have trouble orgasming and are afraid to talk about it — or for even the most jaded swinger, who can whistle Dixie while dispensing multiple reverse-no-look handjobs — Altman’s sweetness and genuine curiosity could be eye-opening. She lets it all hang out on the page, and it’s hard not to be charmed by her sincerity. Hooksexup spoke with Altman, a petite woman who glows the way you might expect someone would, if they’d just spent the last year or so hanging out with sacred whores and vagina enthusiasts. We spoke about science, sex, self-awareness and — of course — the big and little Os. — Nicole Ankowski

How did you decide to make this quest into a book? That’s some bravado.
I was thinking about what I could write, and a friend who knew about my orgasm issues suggested I write a book about them. I got so angry I didn’t talk to him for a couple days. I was really offended. It just seemed wrong. It wasn’t even that I felt embarrassed or anything, it was more just something that was private, you know? But then I started thinking, "Damn, I could kill two birds with one stone. I could figure out this orgasm thing, and I could write a book." And then I was doing it before I realized how embarrassing it was.

Gawker posted a leak of your proposal, and they weren’t fans. When you say, "before I realized how embarrassing it was" — what caused it to start being embarrassing?
Everyone kept going, "Wow, you’re really brave." At first I was like, "No, I’m just writing a book and figuring it out." That’s probably also because my family is so open about sex. So I didn’t really think you were so inept if you’d never had an orgasm — I still don’t think that. But people’s reactions to my contracts, to my mission, started to make me realize that if they were doing it, they’d be really embarrassed. To them it really seemed like going out on a limb.

But not to you?

It didn’t. No. It felt really fun and exciting. Like an adventure.

You mention your family a good deal in the book. How did they react?
They were into it. My brothers, one of them didn’t want to be talked about at all. And it’s not like my parents said, "Talk about us! We love it!" But they were like, "That’s what we get for having a writer as a daughter."

You were twenty-six and you’d never had an orgasm. Is this a common problem for women?
It’s common, but it’s not commonly talked about. If you look at statistics, you’d see that forty percent of women have a "sexual dysfunction." That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not having orgasms — it just means that they’re unhappy with something in their sex life. Anyone I met who hadn’t had an orgasm, it was never actually person-to-person. It was someone who knew someone. People don’t admit it. Like, "My ex-girlfriend couldn’t have orgasms" or "I have a friend. . ."

Do you think women today are ashamed to admit they can’t come, since it’s almost a feminist thing, to be sex-positive?
Some of the people I talked to say that during the ’60s, ’70s, yeah — every woman had to have their orgasm. That made you a woman. It was all about the orgasm. Maybe that’s it. But when you’re in bed with a guy, you want them to think you’re happy with their performance, and so you maybe fake it. I mean — these are things I realized after the fact. [laughs] Because before, when I was with some guy, I’d say, "Just so you know, I’ve never had an orgasm."

You would tell them that outright? How did people react? Did they take it as a challenge?
I guess I just said it in such a normal way that they were like, "Okay." Don’t get all upset. Just so you know: don’t expect screaming, clawing.

You attended an event organized by the "orgasm commune" OneTaste, which culminated in the group ritual of "orgasmic meditation." What was it like?
They had an apartment that’s all wood floors and white walls. It was a whole-day workshop of talking and getting closer. You eat lunch off of each other — there’s no silverware, plates. It’s learning to communicate really clearly. Looking at someone’s face and telling them exactly what you see, even if you see a big pimple. That kind of thing.

Then, at the end, you have the option to try this practice. They roll out a whole bunch of yoga mats. They have homemade lube that they make. A partner chooses you, or you choose them — it doesn’t really matter because it’s supposed to be platonic. And it’s very, very uncomfortable and strange. I only did it once. I didn’t really want to try it again, and I followed what I felt. I know people who have done it many, many times, and they feel like it opens them up a lot.

Do women take their pants off?
Yeah, and then the guy puts his hand underneath your butt, a little. They say they rub the "upper left-hand quadrant" of the clit. And they tell you, as they’re doing it, what they see — which connects you to your pussy — but it’s also disconcerting, because you’re not used to someone staring at it and saying, "Oh, it’s changing colors!" And, "Oh, it’s getting engorged." You’re like, "Oh… great. Thanks." We’re not used to hearing that without a value judgment — they don’t say, "Oh, it’s so pretty, engorging like that."

Was it your partner’s first time at the event?

Yeah.

So did they teach the new guys their technique for giving women orgasms?
That was one of the problems. They basically said, "This is what you do." Then they have people going around the room, looking at how they were doing it and giving them little pointers. [But] if you’re two new people doing it, it’s a little like having sex for the first time, and you’re both virgins. It was a bit uncomfortable for both of us. And kind of embarrassing.

Did you have an orgasm when the men were manually stimulating you, at either OneTaste or the offshoot compound you call "Pussy Willow Creek"?
Not in the common thought of what an orgasm is. But by what they think orgasm is, yeah. They define it as the edge. It’s before you go over. So as soon as your crotch feels better than the rest of your body, you’re in orgasm. It’s not waiting for this moment, and not having this goal, it’s like continually enjoying the sensations. The ups and downs of sensation are your orgasm.

I think there probably are a lot of people who are orgasming and aren’t sure. The movies portray it as something explosive and volcanic, but it can be such a huge spectrum.

You spend time with Eric, Betty Dodson’s boyfriend and self-proclaimed "sacred whore," who was very respectful of your boundaries —
He helped me have boundaries. I’m bad at boundaries. He makes you realize it when you don’t feel comfortable — keeping you in power, even if you’re not giving that power to yourself.

If a woman came to you and said she was having trouble orgasming, what would your advice be?
Take some time alone, as much as possible — if you could, every day. Explore your body. Feel what feels good. For me, even now, it’s still really difficult. I think I let it go for too long, without exploring myself. You have to build all those neural pathways, and it takes time and effort to make that happen.

So there’s evidence that orgasms are learned behavior.
All the scientists I talked to said that when you get used to doing an activity, it becomes engrained in your thinking. If you’re used to masturbating on your back, it gets engrained in you to orgasm that way. So if you’re on top of someone having sex, you’re going to have a harder time orgasming. You have to practice.

Has it changed your life? Do you date differently now? You seem very calm. In the book, you definitely let your insecurities hang out.
Yeah, absolutely. Even if people pan it, you know, I’m able to have a relationship now. And know what gives me pleasure. You learn so much more when you learn about yourself and pleasure. You can read other people better. You can listen to your gut instincts better.

It’s not until page 140 that you finally touch yourself, or let someone touch you. Why did it take so long for you to masturbate?
I think I had to get comfortable with the idea of everything. And I was meeting so many people and I was dealing with a lot of things. I was telling a lot of backstory.

I guess, as someone who is reading it —
Did you get frustrated?

Yeah. If you’re having trouble orgasming, either you have to touch yourself, or you have to let your partner try. Why was that so hard for you to do?
It’s still hard to say, but I think for so much of my life I’d been so into my career, and I felt like it was more a hindrance than a help to focus on my own body. Also, yeah, body issues — about having someone look at me, and touch me, and judge me, and get that close. I do touch on a lot of that in the book.

In your descriptions of your own vagina, some of your choices of language are hard to read: "the complicated lump of squish between a woman’s leg," or, "mildly disgusting, like a mushy banana."
At that time I started the book, I think I was kind of alienated from my body. It wasn’t something that I knew very closely. Now I’ve surrounded myself with people who are very close with their bodies and are always talking about how much they love their pussies. It’s definitely changed how I see it — but yeah, that’s how I did view it.

I didn’t really think, "I’m going to show the readers how I feel about my body so I’m going to write it like this." That would, in a way, be envisioning a character as me, and then writing it from what I thought that person would think. And it was really just a book that was written from my perspective. [laughs] As sad as that might be.

To purchase Thanks for Coming, please click here.

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