“I’ve never taken much time to analyze my motives until this lawsuit. By med school, I ended up becoming obsessed with how little people knew about women’s sexuality.” I try to articulate my inner thoughts. “I still am, in a way.” I take a second to think. “I guess it really originated with my classmates…men always come. Alwaysexpectto come.”
She watches me, silent now, the teasing gone from her expression.
“I hadn’t really paid much attention before then. Then it became so fucking obvious. Guys walk around like they’re God’s gift to women in bed and they don’t even care where the damn clitoris is,” I fume. “It’s so stupid. Selfish. I didn’t want to be one of them.”
Marcella presses her lips together. “Go on.”
“So, I started reading more. Research. Clinical studies. Old theories, new theories. Stuff Freud said got women labeled as frigid because they didn’t orgasm from intercourse alone.” I snort. “Don’t get me started.”
“I mean…” She tilts her head, lips twitching. “He was kind of a dick.”
“Right? Then I came across this theory from a French princess—Marie Bonaparte. She believed some women couldn’t orgasm during intercourse because their clit was too far from the vaginal opening.”
Marcella’s brow furrows. “Wait,what?”
“Yeah. She actually had surgery. Multiple times. Tried to reposition it so she could experience orgasm from penetration alone.” I wince at the idea, surgery back then was a little barbaric.
“Jesus.” She’s fully upright now, sitting with one leg folded beneath her. The sheet falls away from her chest revealing a dark nipple, and I try to stay focused on the conversation.
“She wasn’t the only one. Researchers tracked what they called the CUMD—the clitoris-to-urethra distance,” I continue. “They found women with shorter distances had a higher chance of reaching orgasm during intercourse. Even then, it was never a guarantee.”
She stares at me for a beat, wide-eyed. “You’re telling me you read clinical studies to figure out how to get women off.”
“Anatomy is kind of my thing.” I let my hand trail up her spine. “If I wasn’t set on neurosurgery, I’d probably be an OBGYN.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “You’re insane. In a good way.”
“From what I’ve heard, most guys treat sex like a formula—insert my cock into her pussy, pound until I come. It’s no wonder so many women fake orgasms when their pleasure is so much more nuanced. It’s not only about mechanics—it’s trust, attention, attunement. You have to listen.”
“You really are the Orgasm Whisperer.” She bats her eyelashes at me.
“Yeah…well, it’s not so complicated. I don’t know why men aren’t more curious about their partner’s pleasure.” I pause.
Marcella looks at me like I’ve told her I’m from another planet.
Ah. It’s time for the million-dollar question. One I need to get answered before she and I take this much further. “Does it bother you? I’ve…experimented with a lot of women.”
“I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “I mean, numbers are numbers. We both have them. It explains a lot, actually. The way you touch me, I feel like my body isn’t even mine—it’s yours, in the best possible way.”
A flush creeps up my neck. Her honesty always hits me like a punch in the chest.
She runs a hand through her hair. “You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“At dinner I confided something to you I’ve never told anyone. I spent years assuming there was something wrong with me. Convinced other women knew something I didn’t. I thought I was too hard to please. My mind was too complicated to let go.” She swallows. “Of course, mainly I struggle with a deep-seated belief: if I were thinner or more conventionally desirable, my past lovers would have taken the time to learn me. I would have been worth it. I’ve carried insecurities around my sexuality for years—you’ve opened my eyes a bit. I thought they took what they wanted and I let them. Maybe it wasn’t so personal.”
“Of course it’s personal.” This angers me. I sit up, legs crossed, facing her. “You’re not complicated. You’re not hard to please. They were lazy.” Her eyes glisten, and I reach forward, brushing my fingers down her jaw. “You’re not some puzzle to solve, Marcella. You’re a woman who deserves to be worshipped. Touched with care. Looked at like you’re fucking art.”
She looks away. I don’t let her retreat. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I wish I knew…before,” she murmurs.
“Well,” I say softly. “I’m telling you now.”
We sit in the quiet for a beat until she exhales. “I don’t get it, Seamus. You’re not a callous asshole. It’s hard to reconcile. You studied all of this. Applied it. Perfected it. For what? Random stairwell hook-ups?”
Wow. Her words sting. I deserve it.
