Orgasms are a Feminist Act

“Memories and Pondering” by Evar Hussayni, 2017

Words by Aida Esmaili, edited by Evar Hussayni

The first time I became aware of sex was at age 10, when I came across lesbian porn while flipping through satellite television late one evening at my grandmother’s apartment in Tehran. I understand that is a weird sentence to read but that’s how it happened. This was around the same time I discovered how to sort-of masturbate. I only say “sort-of” because I hadn’t a clue about what I was feeling. All I knew was that it felt good but should be kept a secret.

The first time I talked about sex was at age 13, when my mom suddenly opened the door to the computer room and blurted – while my friend, Parmida and I were mid-playing RollerCoaster Tycoon – “there will come a time when you and a boy will like each other and decide to have sex. When that time comes, use a condom.” Then she went back into the kitchen and poured herself a 3oz shot of Limoncello. We didn’t talk about sex again until I was 21, when she asked if I was on birth control.

Needless to say, there wasn’t any sort of open dialogue around sex happening in our household. The Birds and The Bees talk was solely about actual birds and bees. This made more sense to me when I learned that Middle Eastern women do not typically grow up talking about sex or learning about their bodies, nor are they encouraged to. I have cousins who live in Iran that do not express their sexual desires to their husbands out of fear of being shamed by them, having their fidelity questioned and coming across as promiscuous. They tell me of this and it saddens me to hear of loving, strong, and intelligent women - deserving of exploring their sexual desires with their beloved partners - denied and shamed for their sensuality.

In Iran, Doodool Tala is a term of endearment mothers use to call their sons, which translates into, “Golden Penis.” There is no female equivalent for mothers to call their daughters. For all girls (and boys) who are exposed to pornography at a young age, we grow up with the belief that sex revolves around mens’ pleasure. It teaches us to put our pleasure and wants aside, and instead, to focus on the male orgasm. I wanted sexual freedom for my cousins in Iran, yet, I was subtly suppressing my own sexual pleasure here in Vancouver.

I was 25 when I first learned that sex was about also prioritising my own orgasms, when a close friend of mine stood up on a chair at work during a meeting we were in together and whisper-yelled, “NO NO NO! THESE GUYS NEED TO BE MAKING YOU CUM!”. This is the moment my focus shifted away from making the guy cum – we all know literally anything can make a man cum – to advocating for my own pleasure. Because if I don’t, then who else will? Let’s be real, most men still rub my clit like they’re trying to wipe off that last bit of a price sticker that won’t come off.

So, my odyssey to orgasm activism began. Remember, why not? I wasn’t looking for anything serious with any of the men I was sleeping with – what a fun, prime time to begin prioritising my pleasure. I introduced the idea of using a vibrator during sex. The initial attempts were, well, definitely not the stuff Toni Braxton was singing about. The quest had to continue. By this point, an orgasm to me meant dismantling systems of oppression. As Nicki Minaj said, “I’m a pleaser but it’s 50-50”. It quickly became apparent that it wasn’t entirely my fault that I was struggling to have an orgasm during sex.

There’s a long history (like Hippocrates long) of clitoris neglect in medicine. Throughout history, men have deemed the clitoris as unimportant, let alone irrelevant, for a woman's sexual pleasure – and sadly, I was still experiencing this today. My journey to orgasm equality is ongoing, and the lessons began with learning about my own body. Not to worry – I did receive sexual education in high school while growing up. Somewhere between writing the name “LUKE” in bold letters in my math workbook and trying to steal cookies from the home economics class my best friend Shiva was in, I managed to get some version of sexual education. You know, the good ol’ 1990s British Columbia school system sex education version. The education that focuses on how to put a condom over your two fingers, and perpetuates the view that the role women’s bodies have in sexual intercourse is primarily for reproduction purposes. To summarise, that version of sex ed essentially taught me and my fellow high schoolers how to get and how to avoid getting pregnant. Pretty slim chances that that environment was where I was going to learn how to orgasm.

All of this is to say that in hindsight, I now know that the learning begins at home. Masturbating in front of a mirror. Playing around with all the sex toys to find out what gives you THAT orgasm. Talking vulnerably about sex with your friends. Asking a therapist to help you ask for what you want. Practicing meditation to get out of your head and into the moment to enjoy your sexual experiences more deeply. Being open about what gets you off with that dude you’re sleeping with, mostly because you like his dog. Even, maybe, being open with your partner. Unlike my dear cousins in Iran, and many other women in the Middle East, my privilege allows me to express my sexuality without fears of mistrust, being shamed or silenced.

To orgasm is a revolutionary act. We simply can’t be faking orgasms anymore. It does ourselves and the next generation of women a huge disservice. We can’t let him go into the world rubbing a clit that, damn, hard. Let’s take ownership of our sexual experiences and let those desires play out. I encourage you to embrace orgasms as a feminist act.