When we smell another’s body, it is that body that we are breathing in through our mouth and nose, 
that we possess instantly, as it were in its most secret substance, its own nature. Once inhaled, the smell is the fusion of the other’s body and my own. ~ Jean-Paul Sartre 

The power of scent influences our human responses during attraction and mating. Love at first sight just may be love at first smell. Perfumes have been created for centuries, as ancient of a practice as we can trace back. Oils, unguents, elixirs, and the like were made for perfuming during and after bathing rituals, anointing one’s body to attract and entice. Our own pheromones are nature’s chemical concoction to attract, allure, and bond us with our mate. Sexual attraction and desire are fueled by scent, along with other contributing factors. But the natural scent of a lover is everlasting in our olfactory memories.

The scent of my lover intoxicates me with desire. When I nuzzle my nose against his skin, I am flooded with emotion. As we kiss, the scent of his upper lip makes my body tingle with a strong sense of devotion for him. I feel this awareness zing through me from his face to my nose, through the bones of my face, down into my breastbone, into my belly, like electrical current into the bones of my hips and down my legs to my toes. It is so powerful, like a magic spell cast over me. The skin of his neck and just near his ear smells so indescribably good and masculine that I feel gravity pull me into him. It’s so strong, I can’t resist. His scent causes a swell of longing to surge through me. When he leaves his clothing behind, I hold it to my face, close my eyes, and remember his embrace. I am obsessed with my lover’s scent.

Gustave Flaubert waxed deliriously with desire over his lover’s scent that lingered on her gloves and slippers. Poet Robert Herrick’s desire for his lover’s intimate scent, whose “breast, lips, hands, thighs, legs … are all richly aromatical,” made him wild with want for her. Napoleon Bonaparte, upon returning home from a long absence due to war, sent a message to his lover Josephine: “Home in three days. Don’t wash.” Washing and cleanliness decrease the musky scent that lovers crave of one another. I must admit, although I do love to bathe and enjoy feeling clean, I also love it when my body smells like sex after making love, because it reminds me of my lover. I feel possessed, scent-marked. But like animals do, marking their scent and licking the scent of others, I want to be scent-marked by my lover’s body. I want to be claimed by him. I inhale the scent of his skin during lovemaking, just his natural scent, without perfumes or deodorant. With my face buried into his armpit, there is nothing like the scent of him, so I breathe him in. It arouses me beyond measure. Kissing his mouth and inhaling my lover’s scent during sex is the most compelling combination of sensory pleasures.

Walt Whitman said the sweat of a lover was “aroma finer than prayer” and I must say I agree. In fact, I’ve discovered that I’m becoming a little fetishistic about the scent of the man I love. He leaves behind a necktie and immediately I smell the narrow part that keeps itself nearest around his neck. I am transported to the warmth of his skin there, the place where my face seeks when we are embracing. I recall the scent of him, remembering the smell when I burrow my face against his warm neck. I hold the thin black fabric to my face and caress it with my cheek. Inhale. Searching for the scent of him, I give the tie another smell along the strip of its silky fabric. Smell again. I discover a hint of his scent. My eyes flutter with the memory and instantly I understand the romantic cliche of smelling handkerchiefs and jackets where the memory of one’s lover exists. There, his white undershirt is draped across the chair. I gather the softness to my face. I smell the faintest scent of his body and take another deep inhale to find his odor at the armpit. His body odor is so delicately fragrant that I have to bury my nose. We recently both discovered our mutual love of each other’s smell, so when he is on top of me during sex, he generously offers his armpit to my face. I delight, savor, and relish him then. It drives me near to orgasm and I’m ecstatic with the fragrance of his underarm, his cock deep within me, his breath near my ear.

We both recently learned about how much we have been enjoying each other’s scent— the lingering scents of our bodies and sexual blending of our odors after lovemaking. He admitted to inhaling my sexual musk from behind, burying his nose in between my bottom cheeks, tonguing me there, and then tasting my sex, breathing it in, the femaleness. Even the remaining odors of my sex upon his, as it lingers the following day, he takes pleasure in. I admit my own renifleur delight of his body, the many areas of his body I love to smell, and even more when it has been a day or two after he has washed. Underneath his arms, his upper lip, his cheek, neck, the sultry musk of his sex, the creases in between his legs, and down underneath his balls, the area around his ass, and further. His feet smell good, and when I massage his toes, I am tempted to either suckle them or smell them. I can’t decide. The inner arch of his foot, the in between of his toes. I want him in a way that I have never known before. You see, I have never desired a man this much, and this may just be my first fascination with a lover’s scent. If pheromones are the cause, then it really was love at first smell.

“Masculine exhalations are, as a rule, stronger, more vivid, more widely differentiated than those of women. In the odor of young men there is something elemental, as of fire, storm, and salt sea. It pulsates with buoyancy and desire. It suggests all the things strong and beautiful and joyous and gives me a sense of physical happiness.” ~ Helen Keller

From Diane Ackerman’s book A Natural History of the Senses there is a plentitude of information on scent and smell. I found many curious and interesting facts about pheromones and desire in her book about the senses:

“Pheromones are the pack animals of desire (from Greek, pherein, to carry, and horman, excite). Animals, like us, not only have distinctive odors, they also have powerfully effective pheromones, which trigger other animals into ovulation and courtship, or establish hierarchies of influence and power.

Animals would not be able to live long without pheromones because they couldn’t mark their territories or choose receptive, fertile mates. But are there human pheromones? And can they be bottled? Some trendy women in Manhattan are wearing a perfume called Pheromone, priced at three hundred dollars an ounce. Expensive perhaps, but what price aphrodisia? Based on findings about the sexual attractants animals give off, the perfume promises, by implication, to make a woman smell provocative and turn stalwart men into slaves of desire: love zombies. The odd thing about the claims of this perfume is that its manufacturer has not specified which pheromones are in it. Human pheromones have not yet been identified by researchers, whereas, say, boar pheromones have. The vision of a generation of young women walking the streets wearing boar pheromones is strange, even for Manhattan. Let me propose a naughty recipe: Turn loose a herd of sows on Park Avenue. Mix well with crowds of women wearing Pheromone eau de cologne. Dial 911 for emergency.”

I recall the first day we met. He embraced me right away, and I swooned against him, my face fitting into his chest. We kissed and kissed, the warmth, the scent of his skin. Everywhere I met a new scent upon his body. The faint hint of shampoo in his hair, no cologne nor deodorant to hunt through for his natural aroma.

Unnameable fragrance, mysterious. I could not argue with instinct. I wanted him more than any other man in the world. He became the entire universe in the moment of his kiss.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent, starving I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disquiets me,

I search the liquid sound of your steps all day.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

For your hands the color of the wild grain,

I hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your loveliness,

The nose, sovereign of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

And I walk hungry, smelling the twilight

Looking for you, for your hot heart,

Like a puma in the barren wilderness.

Pablo Neruda wrote this poem about craving a lover’s mouth, with the last line, and I walk hungry, smelling the twilight, looking for you. The animalistic hunger of wanting a lover, searching for them in the scent of twilight, wanting to eat them from the intensity of desire. And like Jean-Paul Sartre said, Once inhaled, the smell [of a lover] is the fusion of the other’s body and my own. 

Spanking. The rules of the dungeon were such as to initiate me as a submissive. No one graduated to become a dominatrix until they were a submissive first. I wore a white lace bodice that corseted me in and a garter belt with white thigh-high stockings. My submissive attire was to look girlish and innocent. Sweet. And I’m real good at being sweet. I’m a darling girl.

The dominatrix took me into a room fashioned like a classroom. In place were school desks and a chalkboard. She gently bent me over the teacher’s desk. Wearing her black latex outfit and shiny thigh high boots, she looked like a rocker from the late 80′s. I almost expected to see an electric guitar strapped to the front of her. In a way, she looked like Nancy Wilson from the rock band Heart. She was excited that I was so willing to become a submissive. Her thrill bubbling over her cool exterior, she was gentle when guiding my hips into position. Much like a yoga instructor helping me out with the proper pose of “down dog,” she angled my ample bottom into an upwards place. Contrary to my ideas of dominatrix behavior, she was, well… sweet to me.

This was when I realized the connection between my arousal and the sense of trust and safety. Mental connection and mutual respect needs to be the foundation for such explorations. The dominatrix was doing her best to make me comfortable, without pushing me beyond my threshold.

While I was bending over the teacher’s desk, the dominatrix gave my bottom a light swat with her leather paddle. It felt a little cold and kind of soft. The sting didn’t come until a few more swats to my behind. I felt a flush of excitement thrum through my body—my neck turned red and splotched, my face tingled. I was blushing. My body was responding with arousal. She didn’t say much but mentioned that she’d have to give me a number of spanks in order to train me properly as a submissive. The paddle was warming up, and the swats turned into full leather blows to my cushiony bottom. The ample amount of tush I had served me well. She caressed one of my cheeks with her hand, feeling the heat. She devilishly remarked how red my bottom was getting and giggled. It seemed as though she was enjoying it with all the mischievous glee of a naughty child stealing a cookie.

And just when I was getting into it… she was done. My eyes were glazing, my head lowered, facing the desk. A rush of sexual tingling flowed through my sex. I was swollen and wet; juicy through my white lace panties. I wanted her to do it more. The desks were all orderly, lined up in the classroom, facing the chalkboard like good children. I gave her a demure schoolgirl look like I wanted to be taken. I was aroused by the spanking, my breathing was heavy, and if she had pulled my hair and took me with a dildo I would have allowed her to.

“There’s two things in this world: wonderful, visceral, sexy sex. And death. Horrible, boring death.”

~ Kieran, Dinner for Schmucks

Rough sex. It’s like anything extreme or intense. If it’s done properly, with the right ingredients, it’s delicious. If it’s not done with skill, if it’s devoid of emotion, it can be awful. Cooking is much the same.

If you don’t handle your ingredients with care, you’ll ruin the whole meal. Don’t just thrash around the kitchen, stir things violently, cook haphazardly over a high flame, without knowing how to manage things in an artful way. Otherwise you might as well just microwave it and forget about what it tastes like. It’ll end up as inedible cardboard. And that is how I feel about rough sex without the right ingredients.

And I have had a desire for rough sex lately, which is an unusual thing for me. What I thought I liked or what I felt safe with was soft, gentle, and loving sexual encounters. Most of the time, I want it slow. Tenderness, caresses, and kisses. And then, past the point of orgasm and beyond, I long for my lover to take me as hard as he can. I want more. When I enter this zone, there is an emotional realm, a hidden place that runs along the periphery of my brain, and that realm asks for it rough. I want to be pushed into intensity. I want pleasure, and I want more of it. I want it harder, deeper, more. I need that animalistic sex— the pulling of my hair, the pounding into my body, the growling, screaming, moaning, wild fucking of sex.

Most of my life I’ve responded to sweetness. Sweet behavior and treatment opens me up, allows me to respond. If you are sweet, thoughtful, and gentle with me, I will most certainly enjoy (when the mood strikes) rough sex. You see, I don’t respond to rough right away. Crude behavior is a big turn off. Rough doesn’t mean you can be a boorish ogre and get your way with me.

Going back to the memory of being spanked by that dominatrix in that dungeon. Odd to say, but it was one of the most pleasant experiences I’ve had with a stranger. She was caring and feminine, strong yet soft.

It happened out of necessity. After I had moved back from New Orleans, I needed a job. I had just had my son— he was just a baby then. I was a single mother. My body was still carrying the extra pregnancy weight. Add to that, living in New Orleans. All the food. The wonderful, delicious, gourmet-buttery food. The extra weight wasn’t unattractive, just a little zaftig. Curvy.

I was thirty years old. I was in the prime of my life. And the strip club that I once worked at in Los Angeles wouldn’t hire me back. I was once one of their best girls.

Ten years before then, I had made them a fortune. They gave me any shifts I wanted, and I left with hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars, each day. My body was supple, young, and tanned, with a small waist you could put both hands around, and large, bountiful (albeit silicone) breasts. My hips were sensual and feminine, and my legs as long as a gazelle. In heels, I was towering, over six feet tall. When I emerged from behind the curtain, the slow bump and grind of my hips melted men’s minds, moving like syrupy molasses onstage. With my sultry gaze, I mesmerized men by the crowd. Men lined up for me, waiting, for a private dance. Hordes, dozens, hundreds of men spent their pretty wallets up dry just to have me near. I was in my early twenties. Pretty face, healthy as a thoroughbred, intelligent mind. Not a wrinkle on my face or a reason to be discouraged. To add to my arsenal of seduction, I had a growing comprehension of what men really wanted. My British cousin once said disdainfully: “You’ve always been a man magnet.”

Surprisingly, this time, the club wouldn’t take me back. The manager I dubbed “Valium Bob” poked my belly with his bony index finger.

“What’s this?” he prodded.

“My belly, of course.” I snipped back.

I wanted to say that this was how women naturally look. Surrounded by the new girls, all of them skinny as supermodels in their rhinestone-studded bikinis, Valium Bob was surrounded by girls that resembled greyhound dogs. Compared to my womanly belly dancer curves, I stood out. I wondered, how did this happen? Wasn’t it just years ago I was scooping up bills off the main stage? Slithering out of my satin gowns, giving sideways looks, casting spells over any man like a siren to a sailor, drawing him closer toward the rocky collision of lust. I was the Princess of the Bare Elegance. Where were the girls I knew before? So I had to get over myself. It was all as false as the breasts in that club. And my breast implants had been removed years ago. The moment of pseudo-downfall and has-been realization was no matter. It wasn’t a small world my mind existed in. I saw it for what it was: superficial and nonsense. I had developed an illusion, a mechanism, to exist in that world. But, when my belly was poked by a scrawny, drugged up slimeball, I took offense. My feminist perspective found this behavior in men to push me beyond loathing. I kept my disgust at bay, held my head high, and gracefully stated that I wasn’t about to kill myself with amphetamines or crystal meth in order to work in their club. I walked out.

I had just given birth six months prior to that moment. I was back in Los Angeles, far from the Big Easy of butter and cream. I was not in New Orleans anymore. Dazzling through my mind, thoughts were spinning around, like a dancer spinning down a metal pole. I was wondering what happened to Lucky, Sasha, Heather, Precious, Cherry, Zee, Anita Dawn, and Renee— my sisterhood? The new girls were Fembots, representative of the stereotypical strippers. And those girls were thin, stick-thin, emaciated— some I suspected were anorexic or worse. And everyone in Los Angeles, it seemed, was fixated on body image, whether they knew it or not. It was a rude awakening from the sleepy romance of Louisiana bayou and Nouvelle-Orléans grace. In the Land of Hollywood, supermarkets contained shelves of magazines with celebrities on diets, and diet drinks, diet sodas, ‘lose weight now’ blurbs and fat-free options. Where was the joy of living? The laissez les bons temps rouler of New Orleans left behind, I was lost again in the asphalt maze of Los Angeles traffic and the underground of sex work in a megalopolis. It was a lonely place to be.

So I ended up working at that dungeon. I decided that it was an experimental thing until I lost the pregnancy weight. Then I’d go back to dancing. Or do something else. Besides, I liked being spanked. I guessed it would work out fine if I made some income from it. My behind was pleasantly plump. Spinal Tap’s song of adoration, Big Bottom, was fitting, unlike my old size eight jeans.

When I’ve had rough sex, it was done with love and emotion. The longing and ache to be set free from my contained nature, to have my lover pound me into glorious submission with his hard cock— to be shaken and stirred by the raw instinct— to be utterly taken. Surrender. It’s more about surrender and letting go of all control than violence. If it’s true violence, I’m not in the least interested— violence is not something that arouses me— I don’t want to be slapped in the face or called names. Violence is abhorrent. When I want rough sex, I want it to be about passion.

The most mind blowing rough sex scene I saw was in the erotic espionage film Lust, Caution by Ang Lee. I was pregnant with my third child when I went to see the film in the theater. I have always loved the Chinese actor Tony Leung. Any film he is in, I must watch. A parallel discovered. The parallel: my second pregnancy and my erotic fixation for Asian men which was awakened by a violent sword fight scene in House of Flying Daggers,— and again during my third pregnancy— the realization of my desire for rough sex while watching Lust, Caution. I was shocked to discover how it — rough sex and raw emotion— aroused me still. What was it about violent scenes that provoked? Was it intense love and passion that compelled me? The axis of that parallel erotic response was in correlation to my need for more. For passion and all its reasons, the vicissitudes of my experiential knowledge were weighing upon me. Physical weight, extra body weight, emotional weight—-

I want freedom. I crave lightness of being.

That sex scene in Lust, Caution— rough sex— he takes her with passion bordering on brutality. The emotions were intense, conflicting and layered. It was shocking and erotic. It was dark and dangerous, and tender and instinctual. She wants him; he takes her, roughly, on the bed. His belt buckle in hand, he’s violent with desire. I’m clutching the theater seat; my hands don’t know where to go. I can’t breathe. I’m holding my chest, my breath. I can’t watch. I’m watching. Shaking with undoing, I’m pregnant, and I want to be taken like that. My body is in conflict, wanting gentle treatment when carrying a child within my body. I am thrown into confusion. In the back of my mind, I want someone to take me like he takes her. It was done with finesse. Tony Leung, playing his part, in a sex scene that raised questions in my being as to why I want to be taken so, and the extreme emotions that go with the territory. Much like how lions subdue their mates with a bite to the neck during their mating habits and rituals, I want to surrender.

Perhaps the dangerous amount of intensity, when combined with strong emotion, lights my body up with a thrilling energy. I don’t want brutality. I want passion. Perhaps my body responds to extremes. Anal sex allows my body to feel an extra amount of intensity that vaginal sex doesn’t quite give me. When I am spanked, it’s a similar charge. It’s naughty, erotic. I love the intense orgasms I have during anal sex, which sends riveting tingling sensations and aftershocks of orgasmic pleasure through my entire body. I can reach such realms of heightened erotic stimulation during regular vaginal sex, but it takes longer. Anal sex, spanking, and rough, penetrative, emotional, animalistic sex with someone who adores me, someone I know would never truly hurt me, is the essential ingredient within the landscape of my erotic desire. Surrendering to someone who passionately loves me is the magical link to the core of my erotic being.

Orgasms. The magical gift our bodies have to create indescribable pleasure. When we orgasm, our brains are conducting a symphony of pleasure, and the crescendo (or perhaps many crescendos during multiple orgasms) of it all: the orgasm.

Orgasms are very individual in experience, between men and women, and even different again, how each person reaches orgasm. And not one orgasm is exactly the same as another. Orgasms and their varying intensities can also depend on one’s biorhythms during the day, the week, the month. Our bodies respond better when relaxed and feeling secure. If we are feeling relaxed, our pleasure centers are able to bring us to a wider range of orgasmic bliss. Studies and research have all proven that orgasms are good for you. Not only are they good to experience, but orgasms are an integral part of our wellness and vitality.

Here is a link>> to The Kinsey Institute of Sexual Research<<< for information about all kinds of sexual research and data. There is a wealth of information on masturbation, erogenous zones, fantasy, foreplay, oral sex, bisexuality, anal sex, and other sex related topics. Take note: these studies were done between 1948-1953, so that particular data is outdated, but interesting to see how much has changed since. The Kinsey Institute has a Current Research page with plenty of topics to browse. The current research questions are about sexual psychology, neuroscience, biology, gender studies, sociology and other fields that emphasize the complexities of sexual interest, behavior, and sexual health.

Research of human sexual response by the Masters & Johnson research team was initially conducted from 1957 to 1965, which began their series of studies in human sexuality. Their observation of 382 women and 312 men in these initial studies, estimated to be “10,000 complete cycles of sexual response,” made groundbreaking findings and began theories about sex and sexual response that had not been discovered before. (Except for Taoist Sexual Practices, but we will cover that later.)

About Masters & Johnson’s discovery of human sexual response via Wikipedia:

Four stage model of the sexual response

One of the most enduring and important aspects of their work has been the four stage model of sexual response, which they described as the human sexual response cycle. They defined the four stages of this cycle as:

• Excitement phase (initial arousal) 

• Plateau phase (at full arousal, but not yet at orgasm)

• Orgasm

• Resolution phase (after orgasm)

This model shows no difference between Freud‘s purported “vaginal orgasm” and “clitoral orgasm“: the physiologic response was identical, even if the stimulation was in a different place.

(My note: I am in disagreement with Freud’s theories on the female orgasm. This mention is simply due to the quote. Research is also proving Freud’s theories as inaccurate assumptions.)

Masters and Johnson’s findings also revealed that men undergo a refractory period following orgasm during which they are not able to ejaculate again, whereas there is no refractory period in women: this makes women capable of multiple orgasm. They also were the first to describe the phenomenon of the rhythmic contractions of orgasm in both sexes occurring initially in 0.8 second intervals and then gradually slowing in both speed and intensity.

Orgasms can help us let go of stress. They can help us heal. They can prolong our lives. We sleep better and feel better. We want more of them. But, what goes on in our brains when we are enjoying sex? Discovery Health tells us all about it:

Without nerves sending impulses back to the spinal cord and brain, an orgasm wouldn’t be possible. Just like any other area of the body, the genitalia contain different nerves that send information to the brain to tell it about the sensation that’s being experienced. This helps to explain why the sensations are perceived differently depending on where someone is being touched. A clitoral orgasm, for example, differs from a vaginal orgasm because different sets of nerves are involved.

 All of the genitalia contain a huge number of nerve endings (the clitoris alone has more than 8,000 of them), which are, in turn, connected to large nerves that run up through the body to the spinal cord. (The exception is the vagus nerve, which bypasses the spinal cord.) They perform many other functions in the body in addition to providing the nerve supply, and therefore feedback to the brain, during sexual stimulation. Here are the nerves and their corresponding genital areas:

• hypogastric nerve - transmits from the uterus and the cervix in women and from the prostate in men

• pelvic nerve - transmits from the vagina and cervix in women and from the rectum in both sexes

• pudendal nerve - transmits from the clitoris in women and from the scrotum and penis in men

• vagus nerve - transmits from the cervix, uterus and vagina

The role of the vagus nerve in orgasms is a new discovery and there’s still much that’s unknown about it; until recently, researchers didn’t know that it passed through the pelvic region at all.

Since most of those nerves are associated with the spinal cord, it would stand to reason that a person with a severed spinal cord wouldn’t be able to have an orgasm. And for a very long time, that’s what people with these types of injuries were told. However, recent studies show that people with spinal cord injuries — even parapalegics — can reach orgasm. Dr. Barry Komisaruk and Dr. Beverly Whipple of Rutgers University conducted a study on women with severed spinal cords in 2004. They discovered that these women could feel stimulation of their cervixes and even reach orgasm, although there was no way their brain could be receiving information from the hypogastric or pelvic nerves. How was this possible? An MRI scan of the women’s brains showed that the region corresponding to signals from the vagus nerve was active. Because the vagus bypasses the spinal cord, the women were still able to feel cervical stimulation.

So during sexual stimulation and orgasm, different areas of the brain receive all of this information that lets it know exactly what’s happening — and that what’s happening is very enjoyable. But until recently, we had no way of knowing exactly what was happening in the brain at the exact moment of orgasm.

You may have heard that the brain has a pleasure center that lets us know when something is enjoyable and reinforces the desire for us to perform the same pleasurable action again. This is also called the reward circuit, which includes all kinds of pleasure, from sex to laughter to certain types of drug use. Some of the brain areas impacted by pleasure include:

• amygdala - regulates emotions
• nucleus accumbens - controls the release of dopamine
• ventral tegmental area (VTA) - actually releases the dopamine
• cerebellum - controls muscle function
• pituitary gland - releases beta-endorphins, which decrease pain; oxytocin, which increases feelings of trust; and vasopressin, which increases bonding 

So, our brains “light up with pleasure” just as much as our bodies do during an orgasmic release. And it is release. It is all about letting go. This is what Buddhists call “enlightenment”— letting go. It’s not about attaining orgasm but letting go that allows us to be orgasmic.

In our Western society, we say that we are “coming” when we orgasm. But in Japan, they say they are “going.” Literally. “I’m going” is what a Japanese person might say during orgasm, or “iku” the verb which translates as “to go” or “going” and “ikitai?” which means, “do you want to go?” 

Comings and goings alike, we love the orgasmic feeling of complete bliss. We are in the euphoric state of deliciousness. It’s so good! Yes! We can growl like an animal, groan and scream, moan and laugh. Let it all go. It’s so good, in fact, that our bodies respond favorably. With a release of endorphins, an orgasm relieves tension and stress, and we feel high. And we are!

Here’s a little factoid I found:

Dr. Gert Holstege stated that the brain during an orgasm looks much like the brain of a person taking heroin. Holstege said in an interview with the London Times, “Letting go of all fear and anxiety, might be the most important thing, even necessary, to have an orgasm.”

From Wikipedia:

Orgasm, and indeed sex as a whole, are physical activities that can require exertion of many major bodily systems. A 1997 study in the British Medical Journal based upon 918 men age 45–59 found that after a ten year follow-up, men who had fewer orgasms were twice as likely to die of any cause as those having two or more orgasms a week. A follow-up in 2001 which focused more specifically on cardiovascular health found that having sex three or more times a week was associated with a 50% reduction in the risk of heart attack or stroke. (Note that as a rule, correlation does not imply causation).

Did you read that? Men who had fewer orgasms were twice as likely to die of any cause as those having two or more orgasms a week. So get your two or more a week, boys. And reduce your risk of heart attack and stroke by having sex three or more times a week. And, what about women?

For women, frequent and plentiful orgasms are important to maintaining excellent health. There are many reasons for women to have orgasmic pleasure in their daily life. Healths benefits galore! It also makes you happier. Oxytocin levels are increased, and that is linked to our life’s passion, our relationships, and our wellness. Sexual vitality and a happier, healthier woman you will be.

Orgasms are necessary for our well being. Here are some reasons why:

• Orgasms help alleviate tension
• Orgasms helps hormonal balances
• Orgasms help insomnia
• Orgasms improve cardiovascular health
• Orgasms lower your risk of Type-2 diabetes
• Orgasms increase pelvic strength (lessening incontinence)
• Orgasms are anti-aging

There are so many reasons why orgasms are good. We just can’t live without them, can we? When we do, we feel like something is missing. Right?

There are those who have difficulty having an orgasm. Usually the causes are depression, anxiety, medications, psychological traumas, and abuse. To help heal those issues, sexual exploration and tender loving care is necessary.

For relationships that have waned in the sex and intimacy areas, some loving compassion and extra attention should be the focus, and not the issue of sex itself. Sometimes depression, weight gain, hormones, medications, and stress are the sources of why she or he does not want to make love. After childbirth, in particular, a woman feels a natural shift.  A new mother’s love and attention drifts away from her partner, focusing solely on her newborn baby. Months might pass before she feels up to enjoying sex, or even masturbating. Sleep is also a factor. A new parent may just be too sleep deprived to want anything else but a nap.

Shere Hite, an American-born German, sex educator and feminist, did sexological work focused on female sexuality.

About Shere Hite from Wikipedia:

Hite has focused on understanding how individuals regard sexual experience and the meaning it holds for them. Hite has criticised Masters and Johnson’s work for uncritically incorporating cultural attitudes on sexual behaviour into their research. For example, Hite’s work showed that 70% of women do not have orgasms through in-out, thrusting intercourse but are able to achieve orgasm easily by masturbation or other direct clitoral stimulation. Only 30% of the women in her study reported ever experiencing orgasm during thrusting intercourse.

She has criticised Masters and Johnson’s argument that enough clitoral stimulation to achieve orgasm should be provided by thrusting during intercourse, and the inference that the failure of this is a sign of female “sexual dysfunction.” Whilst not denying that both Kinsey and Masters and Johnson have been a crucial step in sex research, she believes that we must understand the cultural and personal construction of sexual experience to make the research relevant to sexual behaviour outside the laboratory. She offered the criticism that limiting test subjects to “normal” women who report orgasming during coitus was basing research on the faulty assumption that having an orgasm during coitus was typical, something that her own research strongly refuted.

The Taoist approach to pleasure and “joining of the essences” has been around for centuries. Their pleasure was purposeful: Wellness and Vitality.

From Wikipedia:

Taoist sexual practices (Simplified Chinese: 房中术, Traditional Chinese: 房中術, pinyin: fángzhōngshù), literally “the bedroom arts”, are the way some Taoists practiced sex. These practices were also known as “Joining Energy” or “The Joining of the Essences.” Practitioners believed that by performing these sexual arts, one could stay in good health, and attain longevity, and eventually, with some other ‘spiritual’ or alchemical practices, attain even immortality.

According to Ge Hong, a 4th century Taoist alchemist, “those seeking ‘immortality’ must perfect the absolute essentials. These consist of treasuring the jing, circulating the qi and consuming the great medicine.” 

The sexual arts concerned the first precept, treasuring the jing. This is partially because treasuring the jing involved sending it up into the brain. In order to send the jing into the brain, the male had to refrain from ejaculation during sex. According to some Taoists, if this was done, the jing would travel up the spine and nourish the brain instead of leaving the body. Ge Hong also states, however, that it is folly to believe that performing the sexual arts only can achieve immortality, and some of the ancient myths on sexual arts had been misinterpreted and exaggerated. Indeed, the sexual arts had to be practiced alongside alchemy to attain longevity. Ge Hong also warned it could be dangerous if practiced incorrectly.

Here are some links to Taoist Sexual Practices:

• Chang, Jolan. The Tao of Love and Sex. Plume, 1977.
• Chang, Stephen T.. The Tao of Sexology: The Book of Infinite Wisdom. Tao Longevity LLC, 1986.
• Chia, Mantak and Maneewan. Cultivating Female Sexual Energy. Healing Tao, 1986.
• Chia, Mantak and Michael Winn. Taoist Secrets of Love. Aurora, 1984.
• Chia, Mantak and Maneewan. The Multi-Orgasmic Couple. HarperOne, 2002.
• Hsi Lai. The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress: Secrets of the Female Taoist Masters. Destiny Books, 2001.

I have heard about why women did not have sex with their partner as much or, in some cases, anymore. Sometimes months or years have passed without sex or affection. Resentments, anger, and other issues may be blocking the couple from getting close again. For those situations, some help and understanding may be crucial to bring those people together in a loving way.

My own path of self-discovery during my early years of self-pleasure, and partnered pleasure, allowed me to realize my full orgasmic potential. Masturbation is very necessary for understanding our own way of experiencing orgasms. I happen to be in that 5% of women that not only achieve orgasm via simultaneous clitoral stimulation and penetration, but I am also capable of multiple orgasms. I have an orgasm every time I enjoy sex. I may not have multiple orgasms every time, but I am sure to experience at least one or two orgasms within an hour of lovemaking. But, it wasn’t always that way for me. Over time, I had learned what I liked and what made me respond. How I enjoy my clitoris touched, what excites me, and even new discoveries occur after years of enjoyment and orgasmic pleasure like spontaneous orgasms (it’s happened a few times) from barely a touch of someone’s hand or a ride on my bicycle seat. Working out my triceps in the gym by pulling down on a cable gives me a little tingle down there.

Once, receiving a Thai massage gave me a spontaneous orgasm.

The therapist was massaging into my glutes, pressing his knees into my butt and hips. It was sudden and unexpected, how my body responded. I silently gasped and felt surprised that I had a sudden orgasm. No complaints about it, but I certainly wasn’t expecting an orgasm!

It took years of teenage exploration until I figured out how to touch my clitoris in a quick circle while my boyfriend was thrusting inside of me. That was when I discovered how to orgasm with my partner. I was 19 years old when I first had this a-ha moment. Eventually I learned how to orgasm without touching myself during sex. Then it was a question of what position was best.

Everyone is different. What works for me may not work for another. Even if its similar, there is no exact formula. What works for one woman may not work for another in the exact way. This is what puzzles most men. They think it is formulaic in approach, a woman’s orgasm. There are so many different variables involved. I think I have discovered a commonality among men who know how to touch a woman (okay, some women know how to touch a woman, too, but I’m talking male to female here): sensitivity and listening. There are men that by listening to a woman’s body (and not with their ears but that helps) can read their sexual response. It’s an art, a sensitivity to her own individual wiring. They are patient and very interested in her pleasure alone. They get satisfaction from pleasing her and making her feel good. They aren’t in it to get off. These patient and sensitive men tune themselves in to every breathing pattern, every motion, sound, and swell of the woman’s response. They just get it.

There are many women that do fake orgasms. My guess would be that they don’t want their partners to feel inadequate. Perhaps they are afraid to communicate to their partner. But, sometime soon, if they want to experience pleasure and to enjoy satisfying orgasms with their partner, they need to address it. It’s complex for some women to discover their orgasmic bliss.

I had one friend admit to me that she had never masturbated. We were 21 years old at the time, and I was shocked when she told me. Never? She had never masturbated. Her bedroom at home was the main walkway for the family’s bathroom. She lacked privacy. She also found it difficult to reach orgasm with her partner. Well, of course. She had never self-pleasured herself. How could she know what she liked? I was concerned for her happiness, until I noticed her Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator plugged in next to her bed in her first apartment. I smiled knowingly when I saw the vibrator, because I knew she was catching up on lost time, and er, um… orgasms.

I find that my own orgasmic patterns have deepened and become more intense as I have entered my 40s, in fact, my capacity for sexual pleasure has increased over time. I believe it has to do with self knowledge and perhaps that thing called ‘a woman’s prime.’ My erogenous zones are everywhere, and the biggest one, my brain, is very active. I have been going through perimenopause, and taking Chinese herbs from my acupuncturist to balance my hormones and rejuvenate my sexual vitality. I suspect that it was the herbs for rejuvenation of my yin essence that caused me to feel an intense desire the other night. It seemingly came out of the blue. Aphrodisiacs? What is in that tea?

I was having dinner at our favorite Japanese restaurant, when I found myself lusting over the waiter. My children were clamoring around me and my husband at our dining table, but all I could think of was the waiter, standing before me, half naked, a big hard-on pressing through his pants, his shirt unbuttoned. In my fantasy, he was taking me on the sushi counter, while the chef began to join in. (In this moment of fantasy, everyone in the restaurant disappears.) There I am, staring at the waiter, having this fantasy, when I realize that he is staring back at me in disbelief. You see, this waiter has been lusting over me quite obviously for nearly five years, and this is maybe the first time I have met his gaze in equal amounts of desire. My husband, good natured man that he is, thought it was amusing.

He reaped the benefits later that night, when I looked at him solidly and said: “I absolutely must have an orgasm right now.”

He laughed, “That’s quite a lot of pressure.”

Me: “Yes, but I know you are capable of it. No question.”

Towels placed on the bed (I finally had my period thanks to good acupuncture treatments) we made love like we did when we first met. I was really into it. My body was asking for an intensity that isn’t my usual “go slow… slower…slower” approach. No, I wanted it hard, rough, animalistic. I wanted him to pound me harder and to pull my hair, so he did with a sly smile, clutching my long hair in his hand. I squeezed my breasts and felt them bounce while he plunged deeper… pressure against my clitoris in a circle, because ah, yes… that was what I needed. I came and came in waves of orgasmic pleasure until we were both in a sweaty tangle of sighs and moans. I talked naughtily and told him sexy things I wanted to do: I wanted to watch him with another woman, and make her come like he makes me come. I wanted the waiter in my mouth while he gives me exquisite orgasms. I wanted to taste the waiter’s come, feel it all over my body; hot, delicious, sweet, salty. I was in the heat of desire and the euphoric state of orgasm. Chinese herbs, perhaps?

I said so many things that I usually keep within my mind, but I didn’t say aloud that I wanted my acupuncturist, that I wanted four men, five men, a few women, an orgy. I wanted oysters and champagne and lots of sex. I wanted to give orgasms and to have orgasms again and again. I was in a flurry of erotic fantasy, which helped me reach that magical rippling sensation within my body, something marvelous and ecstatic. I felt myself completely relaxed, letting go, allowing the wisdom of my body to do what it enjoys, and to allow my mind to roam freely through fantasies.

Multiple Orgasms are blissful experiences. I remember when I first began having them. It takes awhile during lovemaking to build up to, but eventually, reaching a heightened state of pleasure, I can experience one orgasm into another, just like waves coming to shore. A little one, another, then a big one… drifting into a little one… and men can have them too! Men are capable of orgasms without ejaculation, as well as multiple orgasms. Try reading The Multi-Orgasmic Man and also The Multi-Orgasmic Woman. Also, The Multi-Orgasmic Couple!

Orgasms. They do a body good! So go have one. Or two. Or more!

For the past nine years, I have been acutely aware of what arouses my desire: a passion, a yen for the Asian male. I say that playfully, yen, but it’s a serious matter. I cannot fully explain it. I write this to better understand my erotic fascination. Asian men are, for me, an enigma, the Eros of my own Psyche, the dream of my sensual desires. My attraction to the Asian male goes beyond the surface, deeper into my soul’s mysterious yearning.

My fantasy of the Asian man. He is sincere, tender, kind. A man who considers, rather than assumes. He is gentle yet masculine, soulful and strong. He is connected to his inner femininity, which emphasizes his own masculinity. He doesn’t try to exhibit machismo; he is supple of heart and mind. He is romantic but not effusive, gentlemanly but not contrived.

In my experience, other men I have dated, slept with, been with, engaged and married to, were not quite right for me. After a certain point, I lost interest. Somehow, the magic was not there, and the thrill was gone. What was left after the initial spark? I didn’t know myself well enough. I needed more time to explore the very depths of my being in order to know what I like and to know my soul’s desire. Previous to my acknowledgement of what sort of man attracts me like no other, I tried a rainbow of men. A few Latino lovers of Mexican and Spanish heritage. I was engaged to a red-headed, freckly, Irish-Belgian man covered in tattoos and piercings. I dated a few Scottish laddies, one Norwegian type, and a Hungarian from Montreal. A fling with a cerebral Bostonian songwriter. I had several boyfriends that were ‘grunge’ musicians of various mixed nationalities, simply Americans. I was pursued by many salivating Italian raconteurs and one Persian Casanova. I had a Persian-Polish-French (ex)husband. There was that African-American guy I dated and an Aussie or two. I had a whirlwind affair with an Irish poet from Wicklow.

Along the way, I discovered, my archetypal ideal man is Asian.

It started in fifth grade. I was a shy girl; tall, awkward, wearing tortoise shell-framed glasses. My lanky body and large hands made me feel like a monster next to the petite and giggly Japanese girls in my class.

I lived in historic Los Feliz, the hilly old Hollywood neighborhood of Griffith Park. My elementary school was a melting pot of many cultures. I felt comfortable, at home, around the colorful mixture of ethnicities.  I was intrigued by a Filipino boy that wore glasses like me. He was also shy and tall. And completely adorable. My first real crush.

When this Filipino boy was near, my blood pulsed through my veins, my mouth felt sticky and dry. I could not look at him. He also looked away. Then one day, he decided to look at me in class. He gave me a long, sideways glance. He pushed his glasses down his nose and gave a sly smile. Everyone in class knew he had a crush on me. My stomach gurgled with nervousness. I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. My vacillation between wanting him to talk to me and wanting to hide filled me with dread. What would I do, I thought, if he kissed me? I shoved the thought far back into my mind, never asking that of myself again. Until I read the (forbidden) novel I found on my grandparents’ bookshelf, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. 

When I found the book on the shelf, I instinctively knew it was sensual. The sound of the book, the sweeping title name Lady Chatterley followed by Lover spelled out suggestions of longing and kisses. But the other thing was, as I read this novel, she was a Lady that was also compelled and confused by the climate of her desire.

As young as I was, I was aware that there was something interesting about the boy I had a crush on. If we had the opportunity to talk to one another, I am sure a puppy love affair would have developed. But with both of us being very shy, it never happened.

Many years later, I am in the movie theater. I am pregnant with my second child. My then-husband, the Persian-Polish-French man, loud-voiced, blue-eyed, blond-haired, was suddenly of no interest to me. In fact, he repelled me. I am in the movie theater with my French Maman-in-law, watching House of Flying Daggers. It’s November. I’m eight months pregnant, transfixed by Takeshi Kaneshiro on the screen. Suddenly, I’m boiling hot. I feel stifled. My clothes are uncomfortable. I’m wiggling and soon desperate to remove every article of clothing possible while in a public theater. My fluffy pink pashmina was itchy. My eyes grazed the handsome glowing face of Jin (Takeshi Kaneshiro). Breathtaking, strong, determined. His love scene in the fields with the dangerous beauty, Mei, naked. Observing his pale skin, his long, black hair, it created a chain reaction of chemicals brewing in my body like a love potion. My mouth tasted of metal, swallowing, shaking. My body shifted from cold to hot. My sex pulsing. My belly full of baby, rolling around. I gripped the theater seat. My hands- sweaty. Jin has fallen in love with Mei, the main love interest. The duel in the snow, the last scene, profoundly aroused me until I was left flushed and confused by it all. The clash of swords caused my body to respond. I am surprised that I am turned on by violence. But the look of intense and furious concentration on his face reminded me of sex.

My brain pieced it all together; his face, his body, the love scene, the duel in the snow. All of it was powerfully erotic. My maman-in-law in the seat next to mine, Parisian and aware of l’amour, sniggered to herself as I removed my pashmina and socks. Barely reaching my shoes, I fumbled in the dark theater. I could not stop the chain reaction of the sword metal clanging in my head, reverberating through my bones, sending off little fires like daggers into my blood. Takeshi Kaneshiro’s naked skin flashed again and again in my mind’s eye. During the fight scene, his battle cries were sexual, his voice guttural and animal. I could not stand it, the reaction my body. In that moment, I imagined him coming inside of me, wanting it wildly. I wanted to be naked underneath him, his body pressed upon me, feeling the weight of him, the smoothness of his skin, the scent of his body. I imagine the taste of his lips. Then, in the film, he strikes forward toward his opponent, thrusting his sword in rage during the duel, and I swoon like a lady of the Renaissance, completely undone by the primal response.

As Jin thrusts his sword, I think of him naked and sweaty, dripping his perspiration all over my body as he groans and plunges inside of me. His hair is damp with sweat from our lovemaking, and he is determined to make me orgasm over and over again. He won’t stop, he keeps thrusting, deeper, harder, with ferocity and sexual hunger. The theater seat felt hard and confining. My swelling pregnant body overwhelmed by sudden, unexplainable lust.

The sword fight in the snow shook up my belief that I only responded to non-violent, loving, and gentle behaviors— it was puzzling that I physically reacted with such an intense sexual response. Gentleness and sweetness are two qualities that I require in a partner. The Sakyong, Jamgön Mipham Rinpoche, a Tibetan lama, has the same effect upon me due to his beautiful calm and handsome face. For quite some time I absorbed everything the Sakyong wrote, keeping his books by my bedside. And why is this little “falling in love” so troublesome? When having a “crush” on a Tibetan lama provided so much necessary inner growth and peace? But for the earthly desires I felt, falling for Sakyong Mipham was a positive thing. His poetry, painting, and calligraphy inspired me, because it illumined his passion. The sexual desires were natural as well. And quite probable, the possibility. Tibetan Buddhist lamas are not celibate at all. In fact, his father, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, was a lover of many women.

My sexual fantasies were more complex than I realized, and my primal instinct was to want the rough, savage male fighting viciously with his sword. My neural pathways were creating infinite loops and knots in some ancient pattern. The sword, his face, masculine, animal, my breath, my heartbeat, blood. Again and again, my female response to this scene, a sword fight, calls question to my own self-knowledge.

Understanding my sexual response and inclination to prefer the Asian man is a long path that trails through my genetic wiring. Scientists are now finding through research that women’s sexual orientations have something they call fluidity. 

Fluidity is something that occurs when I am entranced by a handsome Asian man, and, yes, it is no surprise that it triggers the physical fluidity as well (like damp panties). But fluidity in this terminology is “situation-dependent flexibility in women’s sexual responsiveness.” The original concept of “fluidity” has to do with women (like me, again) that are “bi-sexual” as their sexuality shifts (like water or fluid) according to the social influence and stages of their life. So I suppose it sort-of fits this situation, but not really. What I am finding is, as I entered my last marriage (to a non-Asian and very Caucasian male), I completely lost interest in him and his kind and only wanted Asian men. Period.

Still, after so many years, the final sword fight scene in House of Flying Daggers affects me like hardcore pornography. Intense, passionate, and bloody, Takeshi Kaneshiro moves my soul into a realm I cannot explain.

As the years went by, my desire for the Asian man reached epic proportions. Obsessive desire, longing, and wandering Asian markets, shopping centers, and neighborhoods, wearing nothing underneath my flouncy skirt. I wanted to be ravished, devoured, desired by them. I wanted many Asian lovers, all of them hopelessly in love with me. Takeshi Kaneshiro would not be immune. In my fantasy, he stalks me, calling me at all hours, asking if I like pineapple. He runs deliriously through the rain, longing for my touch again. Okay, I am making that up and referring to the film Chungking Express where he does just that. And eats many cans of pineapple.

I am with a Japanese man. I have become so accustomed to him, I forget that he is Japanese. It is because I love him as the person that I connect with. It has become more than the idealized sexual fantasy. Attraction has its magic, but sexual preference is still the glue that binds. It has been more than five years with him, and sex is better than ever. Quirky I guess, but when he talks softly in my ear in Japanese when we make love, I get shivers all over. My sexual response speeds up remarkably, until I am highly aroused and have multiple orgasms. Some things are better off as mysterious. It’s the wonders of life that we cannot know.

There are other celebrity Asian men I find wildly good looking or exceptionally sexy. Chef Ming Tsai, for instance. I have recently admitted to masturbating while looking at the cover of his latest cookbook: Simply Ming: One-Pot Meals. He turns me on by just looking at him. And, he cooks. He loves wine, and he does yoga. He believes in balance and harmony, and combines it all in one pot. Yes, he was raised in Dayton, Ohio. But still, he was raised in the kitchen and learned the art of cooking from his parents before studying at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. I melt like butter in a hot pan when I see his handsome face. Watching clips of Ming in the kitchen is veritable foodie porn.

 Ah, Ming. A dream man I desire. Whatever my mind does, and however it does it, I forget science and gaze upon his picture, longing to be by his side, at a wine tasting somewhere verdant and pastoral. The fantasy rolls through some idyll countryside of France, where we are giddy with wine and love. I imagine sex with him would be gourmet. His hands fragrant with spices and herbs. His kisses, sensual and epicurean. I suppose there is a common thread: wielding a sword or a chef’s knife, the Asian man of my dreams is multi-faceted, passionate, the existential hero of my animus within.

I am lost in the mystery of my desire, in favor of the Asian man.

The first food I remember tasting and feeling an overwhelming sense of pleasure  from was rice pudding. It was evening when my grandparents arrived home from a dinner out, and they thought to bring a pint of rice pudding home. I may have been about six or seven at the time. The container was treated as a magical vessel, the way my grandfather spooned the pudding out into a small bowl for my dessert. Plump raisins speckled the pudding among the creamy rice, scent of cinnamon and vanilla. The raisins burst in my mouth with juicy surprise, and the heavy cream, so voluptuous and decadent on my tongue. Such sensuality was intensely memorable, particularly at such a young age.

Rice pudding was my first sensual food experience, and then there was the bowl of fresh strawberries, chopped up and swirled into sour cream with heaping amounts of brown sugar. Such were the beginnings of my culinary taste buds. As a girl, one with wonder about magic potions, and spells cast by witches and wizards in fairy tales, the idea of an aphrodisiac captivated me.

The potion that makes one fall in love seemed the most appealing. Whether it was made by a witch or concocted in the kitchen, that concept of creating something to evoke a strong desire, and love. Inspiration and seduction, the spell cast by pots and pans, by stirring exotic spices into a pot of soup, or blending a secret ingredient into your amour’s drink, the outcome would be unbridled pleasure.

The desire for pleasure is something that is deeply embedded in human longing. We seek out pleasure in food, drink, and love. There are many aspects to pleasure, of course, from having our hair washed at the salon,  feeling the warm sun on our skin, stretching our body out in a comfortable bed after a good sleep, to making love, perhaps, in that morning or any other moment, and tasting something we truly enjoy. The idea of food as a magical substance that enhances our desires, that makes our love interest want us intensely, that inspires lovers to greater moments of passion, is an idea that has existed for centuries.

In New Orleans I knew a Voudou Priestess who had a little shop (botanica) where she gave tarot readings and dispensed love potions, spells, candles, and magical oils to her believers. I danced on Bayou St. John in celebration of the famous New Orleans Voudou Queen, Marie Laveau’s birthday. Erzulie was honored into the sacred space for the ceremony. Erzulie is the Voudou goddess of love, romance, art, passion and sex. Beauty and love are her creations. People came in seeking help with their love life. The Voudou “orisha” or “goddess” Erzulie is their version of Aphrodite, and she is called upon for love spells in particular.

The word “aphrodisiac” derives from the Goddess of Love and Sex, Aphrodite. She herself was born of the sea, emerging on a clam shell, created from sea foam. The “clam shell” has vaginal suggestions, and the sea, amniotic fluid, birthing from ‘sea foam’, which makes one think of semen. At least I think of semen when imagining sea foam.

Oysters are a known aphrodisiac, and the shells that glimmer with their opalescent promises of sexual stamina and male virility. Perhaps, then, sea cucumbers and geoducks might suffice for an obvious male aphrodisiac? Why oysters, with their feminine sexual offerings? But time has given meaning to these myths of aphrodisiacal qualities, and we don’t question the powers of the mysterious rites of sex.

Abalone, acai berry, apples, apricots, and even arugula are thought of as “aphrodisiacs”. Asparagus with its phallic spear, Avocado with its feminine vulva and center (pit) like a womb of green fecundity. Bananas are all too suggestive when eating. Basil was a Roman symbol of love. Champagne, bubbling and effervescent, inspires delight and tastes of romance, celebration. Yes, chocolate, for a multitude of reasons, is considered an aphrodisiac, without any doubt its mood-enhancing power is scientifically proven. Cherries are juicy and red, sensual to suck on, bite, turn the pit around in one’s mouth.

• Almonds a symbol of fertility throughout history. The fragrance is believed to inspire a woman’s passion.
• Anise According to Greek and Roman history, sucking on anise seed stimulates desire.
• Arugula Since the early ages, arugula and pistachio are known aphrodisiacs.
  
• Asparagus An aphrodisiac because of its phallic shape.
• Avocado The Aztecs believed avocado was a symbol of sexuality.
  
• Bananas One glance at a phallic banana, and you know why. Also rich in potassium and vitamin B which help hormone production.
• Basil Basil is said to increase libido and fertility.
  
• Beetroot: With its passionate red color, beetroot is a rich source of the mineral boron which helps produce sex hormones.
• Carrots: Men who wan a stronger libido should add carrots to their diet.
  
• Cayenne pepper: This fiery spice is known to heat the sexual drive.
  
• Chili peppers: Eating these causes the release of endorphins which are natural painkillers, and also cause the same high as extreme physical exertion. Chili peppers increase heart rate, which quickens the pulse and makes for an exciting evening.
• Champagne: A symbol of celebration, because of champagne’s tiny bubbles, the intoxicating effect of the wine is carried more quickly into the blood stream. The aromas of dry champagnes are also said to replicate the scents of female pheromones.
• Cherries: A classic symbol of love, cherries’ rich red color and burst of performance-enhancing nutrients make this a perfect fruit to have on hand for a romantic evening. Certain cherries are believed to stimulate pheromone production.
• Chocolate/cacao: The Aztecs referred to chocolate as “food of the Gods”. Chocolate contains the aphrodisiac phenyl ethylamine, which releases the same hormone as sex. It also contains the feel-good hormone serotonin and caffeine to race things up. It has more antioxidants than red wine. To really inspire your passion, you can have chocolate and red wine together.
  
• Cranberries: These little crimson berries are full of vitamin C and fiber to keep you feeling frisky.
• Garlic: The ‘heat’ in garlic is said to stir sexual desires. Used as an aphrodisiac since the Egyptians, the Romans consecrated it to Ceres, the goddess of fertility.
  
• Nutmeg: Nutmeg was highly prized by Chinese women as an aphrodisiac and Hindus used it to raise body heat and sweeten breath. In general, it evokes the warmth and comfort of home. Dangerous in large quantity as nutmeg can produce a hallucinogenic effect and health hazards. Just use it sparingly.
• Nuts: Nuts are packed with protein and a healthy source of fat, which helps produce testosterone. Nuts are cholesterol free – the perfect natural aphrodisiac.
• Pomegranate: A bright, passionate red, the pomegranate’s color suggests desire. Pomegranates were a symbol of Aphrodite. In ancient Middle Eastern cultures, this aphrodisiac fruit’s many seeds were considered a visual symbol of virility. The fruit was even recommended as a natural aphrodisiac in the Kama Sutra.
• Raspberries and strawberries: Both of these little fruits are called ‘fruit nipples’ in erotic literature and are perfect for hand feeding your lover. Strawberries were considered an aphrodisiac in ancient Rome, where they were a symbol of Venus.
• Tomatoes: Once banned by the Catholics for fear it would evoke lust in the young members of its church, the tomato was nick-named the ‘love apple’ when it arrived in Europe from South America. With its bright red color, soft flesh and sweet yet tangy flavor, maybe the tomato isn’t so innocent after all.
• Vanilla: Its power is in its aroma – before vanilla can hit the tongue, the hypothalamus, the gland that controls memory and emotion, jumps into action, evoking feelings connected with vanilla’s powerful scent. Both the scent and flavor of vanilla is believed to increase lust.

One key aphrodisiac: Cinnamon.

Cinnamon, the scent, beguiling for men in particular, and used in the greatest aphrodisiac scents: pumpkin pie and cinnamon buns.

At the top of “sexy smells” according to recent studies was both pumpkin pie and cinnamon buns. Yes, baking a pumpkin pie could be considered seduction.Want to spice up your sex life? Make homemade cinnamon buns.

There are fabulous resources available for aphrodisiac seekers like myself— one of the best books on the subject of “hunger and the psyche” is Bunny Crumpacker’s book “The Sex Life of Food” — this is my favorite book to bring along when dining alone. Imagine the curious looks I get from other diners when they observe me reading this at the table.

There is a wonderful book by Amy Reiley and Juan-Carlos Cruz called The Love Diet :

“A lifestyle plan for a healthy sex life for life, The Love Diet shares ingredients and recipes known to sustain a healthy libido as well as promote energy, mood, glowing skin and cardiovascular health.

The Love Diet is not a starvation program or crazy fad. No one food is off-limits on our plan. We just help readers understand how to reduce unhealthy ingredients and pack the diet with desired nutrients and more sustainable ingredients at the same time as delivering sensual textures and taste bud tittlating flavors.”

Figs are also an aphrodisiac. A symbol of a woman’s sex, figs are sensual, exotic.

Explore some aphrodisiacs, enjoy with your lover, or inspire yourself in the kitchen. Aphrodisiacs don’t need to apply to just romance, they can also uplift our mood, giving us a sensual experience of life and living. Create recipes using figs and other aphrodisiacs that appeal to you.

Papayas are also amazing for one’s sexual health: papaya has compounds that act as the female hormone estrogen. It has been used as a folk remedy in promoting menstruation and milk production, facilitating childbirth and increasing the female libido.

But in Guatemala, men eat papayas as an aphrodisiac. Aside from all the sexual reasons, papaya is incredibly good for our health: The milky juice that comes out from unripe papaya fruit is a good digestive aid. It stimulates the secretion of gastric juice, and is used in cases of stomach discomfort like dyspepsia. Commonly used as a cooking ingredient. the unripe or green papaya also has a digestive enzyme called papain which tenderizes meat. Papain is also used as a digestive aid and is said to have anti-inflammatory benefits.

Being healthy is sexy. We feel sexier when we are healthy also. And cooking for our lover can be an adventure, gathering the “magical” ingredients to woo our beloved, taking the time and putting love into what we make. Like Water For Chocolate is a favorite film of mine based on the novel by Laura Esquivel. My favorite scene is when Tita makes her famous “aphrodisiac” dinner of quail in rose petal sauce:

“Tita’s strong emotions become infused into her cooking and she unintentionally begins to affect the people around her through the food she prepares. After one particularly rich meal of quail in rose petal sauce flavored with Tita’s erotic thoughts of Pedro, Tita’s older sister Gertrudis becomes inflamed with lust and leaves the ranch making ravenous love with a revolutionary soldier on the back of a horse before being dumped in a brothel and subsequently disowned by her mother.”

Another book that inspires is by Isabel Allende: Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses—- “In this bawdy memoir-cum-cookbook, Allende has put together an apothecary of aphrodisiacs, from snake’s blood and rhinoceros horn to the more commonplace and more palatable oysters, “those seductive tears of the sea, which lend themselves to slipping from mouth to mouth like a prolonged kiss … can be purchased in bottles, but there they look like malignant tumors; in contrast, moist and turgid in their shells they suggest delicate vulvae–a prime example of food that appeals to the eye.”

“If cookbooks make up part of your library,” Allende notes, “books on eroticism should, too.”

Love magic and spells are part of ancient history.

“Eros spells” were mainly practiced by men and prostitutes in Ancient Greece. Eros spells were used to instill lust and passion into women, leading them to fulfill the man who invoked the spell.

“Love magic” was also practiced during the Renaissance period (14th to 17th centuries) and was both Christian and Pagan. It was taken quite seriously and sometimes hidden in pseudo-religious acts of candle lighting and prayer. It was also cast upon those of wealth and status, and used carefully due to the social and physical dangers involved in casting “love spells” during the Renaissance of Europe.

Tristan and Isolde is a tale that involves a “love elixir”: After defeating the Irish knight Morholt, Tristan travels to Ireland to bring back the fair Iseult for his uncle King Mark to marry. Along the way, they drink a love potion that causes the pair to fall madly in love. The story is told in many ways, and the effects of love elixir vary from tale to tale.

There was a chef I once was completely enamored with. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. A handsome, strong, tall Korean man with a sweet disposition, very shy, and a talented sushi chef. I dined at his restaurant just to eat whatever he decided to make for me. Being vegetarian, perhaps this illustrates my desire. I ate any kind of sushi, sashimi, and anything else he conjured. It was exquisite, the mystery. He served me at my table, rather than at a “sushi bar”. Kneeling at my eye level before my table, he looked at me with his penetrating eyes, and softly asked me, “What would you like tonight?” My answer could have been lusty and direct, but that would have ruined the magic. He flirted with me through food. It was as delicate as his sweet shrimp and baby lobster roll, as luxurious as his creamy sauces.

I will never forget the rainy night when I entered the warm candlelit interior of the restaurant, damp with rain. I was hungry. I had just spent several hours in my Japanese language class, and drove across the city, stomach grumbling, dizzy with hunger. The restaurant was quiet that night. Just the few waitstaff, the bartender, and me at my table. I was alone with my chef. I could see him from my table through the open space of the kitchen, in his indigo dyed yukata, his broad shoulders, his head wrapped with the same color “hachimaki” (head bandana). His face was illuminated by the indigo dyed fabric, smiling at me from the kitchen. He came out and asked me if I was especially hungry. Of course I was about to faint.  Swooning. He said, “I know just what to make for you.”

As he bustled around the kitchen, he was a magician. There was something unusual going on. The sound of the rain, droplets on the windows sparkling with the lights from neon signs, the busy street, the interior candles. glimmering. The sounds of clanging pans and stainless steel bowls. He was not wrapping rolls or cutting fish, but using the stove. I noticed the shape of his body far off in the kitchen, doing something with a pan.

He returned with a plate of the most fragile lacy crepes, pahjun, or “pajeon”, made with scallions and other julienned vegetables inside a warm thin pancake. They are also known as authentic Korean “boochoo jun” (chive pancake). They arrived by his hands before me, the glorious scent, his hands near me, our eyes met over the dish, his gaze spiced with heat. He explained that I use my hands, gesturing to my hands, a slight touch to my skin, and his fingers to his luscious mouth, he said, “just dip and eat.”

The pajeon came with a dipping sauce that was fragrant and sweet— he had made it himself. He told me it had ginger, sesame, garlic. Something sweet also. Love? Desire?

An unforgettable aphrodisiac dinner, and the memory of that rainy night.