I remember watching this movie a long time ago that still haunts me to this day, although I can’t recall its name. The fragments that dance around in my head consist of a storyline that goes a little something like this…

There is a doctor, who I believe to have been a Dom, who is seeing this man’s wife. I gather that she was once his patient before they became involved sexually. Come to think of it, I believe that he was a sex doctor of sorts. So, this grieving man goes to the doctor and begs for him to stop seeing his wife. Instead of granting his wish, the doctor offers to teach him how to please her in a way words can’t capture. The man agrees.

So the part that haunts me?

The husband and wife are in a dark room of some seedy hotel. I could only make out the silhouette of her partially covered body. A leg, a thigh, a hip, her chest heaving up and down, her sweat forming pools on exposed skin, and him – the husband. His hand is plunged deep inside of her. From her erotic moans, I know that he has crossed the line where pleasure and pain meet. She is crying uncontrollably, and flashes of memories attack her mind while reality fights for its spot. After that scene, I remember no more, except that I wanted that moment.

The doctor explained to the husband the correlation between sex, pain, and emotional trauma. The husband needed to bring her to that moment to save her from herself and the clutches of another. She needed to relive the past that haunted her. She needed to cry the song of sorrow. The doctor taught the husband how to reach the G-spot.

I consider myself well rounded sexually. I have had the pleasure of frolicking between the vanilla and the land where sadism and masochism run free. Because I crave so hard, it takes a lot to break me. And like the touch of another, I crave to be broken. This is why the movie has held me captive for so long. He broke her with a single touch. Before recently, I had not had the pleasure of that type of touch.

I have been brought to utter destruction via a fist buried where my soul resides. I have felt the damage a 12×4 dildo can deliver. I have screamed to the Gods for deliverance, and yet have not felt what the one in this nameless movie endured. I guess you can say that I have been on this quest to be her.

A normal orgasm has varied levels that will leave you in many different states. From a blubbering mass to a chain smoking freak; the intensity of the orgasm dictates your state of being. Some orgasms make you cry, while others may leave you laughing. And I heard a rumor once that not everyone orgasms when they have sex. (I am truly baffled by this phenomenon, and a support group needs to be established to help those lost souls.)

I must orgasm when I have sex. This is not a declaration of a spoiled brat. It is my truth, and I have accepted this. If I am refused this luxury, I turn into an evil monster with an insatiable appetite that will hunt for a victim. I don’t like this feeling at all, and it goes against my submissive nature.

In the beginning, I could only have a clitoral orgasm by riding. An old issue of Cosmo traces this back to the subconscious – whatever. The bottom line is that I had to have it that way. Through riding, I was privy to some of the most earth shattering climaxes out there. But I still was not her, my phantom actress.

The first time I was brought to tears had nothing to do with my partner at the time. There was no love, no infatuation, and no butterflies. The act was simply to serve a purpose, and I knew this. But somehow I was penetrated deeper than I had ever been, and I felt an emotion that had no name. I hated that it was wasted on the person I was with, but grateful for the gift. I lost myself in that moment, and for a second I thought maybe I had obtained what my mystery actress had. But I hadn’t. I went somewhere, but not there.

After that experience, I compared all lovers to the one that made me cry. Some exceeded, but mostly fell. But still I had not obtained what I had been looking for. In my mind, I believed that a G-spot orgasm would give me the answer to who I was. I guess I thought that it would help to define me, break me or rebuild me. I would be happy with either.

The night that it happened, there were no candle lights burning in the background nor sweet crooning over the airwaves. I was in the backseat of her car folded into a postion Yoga hadn’t discovered yet. And she had found a way to infiltrate my personae; revealing the lost one I try hard to hide. All of this through a simple act…

I remember her hand going deep inside of me, and then a part of me being touched that hurt but pleasured. It was a different type of pain for me, that flooded me with memories I had buried, emotions I had ignored, and a connection reserved for the gods. I had become my forgotten actress by just a slight of hand.

The difference, for me, when it comes to G-spot orgasm and clitoral orgasm is a long list that I will attempt to shorten. The regular O has so many factors; timing, position, partner, girth, and etc. But the G-spot is much simpler. None of those other things matter. Once it is touched, it is touched, and there is no running away from it. My first time was almost like reliving the moment when I went from virgin to plucked.

I have tried using G-spot toys, and I have found that it is like being broken all over again. I’m on edge, but I want it. I give a little, open up a little more, and brace myself. I try and relax, I try and take it, but it takes much coaxing. I don’t know if it is because I am new to this type of orgasm or if I fear reliving that moment. I am unsure, but I keep trying.

By her touch, it is much simpler. I don’t have to try anything. I know that she is there, that she won’t hurt me, that she will hold me when my nightmares surface, and please me when eroticism takes hold over my senses. And so I allow her to go there.

G-spot orgasms have not become the norm for my sexual play, but I welcome when it happens. I prefer the sporadic encounters, and my mind revels in the release.

I can’t speak for every woman, only myself. And this is my story. Not to be confused with a lifetime movie or a support group admittance. You can’t deny the way sex parallels and even imitates life. And like life, there are those rare occasions when you see light, find God, or have an epiphany. My moment is when my G-spot is touched. What’s yours?