In my early 40’s, my body figured out I can come and not stop coming. I’ve never made it further than fifteen minutes without falling into a deep sleep like Sleeping Beauty with mascara smears (because waterproof mascara terrifies me), or Snow White (but with consent). This isn’t a fluke. I can do this every time. Maybe it’s something about age and permission. Either way, I’m not complaining. 

I haven’t fucked a woman in years and now there’s this woman on top of me. An activist; Very passionate about her causes. She’s stunning. The kind of stunning that short-circuits your brain. She’s moving on top of me and I’m watching her and I start coming and my brain explodes. Actually explodes. Thunderclap migraine. The kind that makes you think: this is it, the stroke, not the good kind, this is how I die. 

I’m lying there, convinced I’m dying, staring up at this beautiful activist, mid-orgasm, thinking: If. If this is how I go out, at least the view is spectacular. But also, I think, this activist is going to have to live with fucking me to death… 

I survived. But almost dying while coming? Tough to top that. This is the Stanley Cup of orgasms. Or the Oscar for Best Film (not Acting). It got me thinking about what it actually takes to leave your body during sex. So I asked other women about their best orgasms. Turns out there are a lot of ways to obliterate yourself—and they all have something in common.

Jennifer, 29, works in finance: 

“We were just having regular sex and he started telling me I couldn’t come. ‘Don’t you dare.’ And something in my brain just broke. The more he said no, the more I needed to. I was trying not to and I couldn’t stop it. When it happened, I blacked out for like thirty seconds.” 

Apparently, prohibition triggers the same reward pathways as cocaine. Jennifer’s husband accidentally turned her orgasms into contraband. Now her brain treats permission like it’s boring. She needs the “no” to get to “yes.” He created a monster. Congrats! 

Alex, 41, photographer: 

“Magic Wand and a woman fingering me. Astral projection, baby. The vibrator’s doing its thing, she’s inside me, and I swear to God I left my body. I was looking down at us from the ceiling. I’ve tried recreating it with men and it’s good, but it’s not the same.” 

Alex has a theory: Women fuck other women like they’re reading their own diary. The Magic Wand is doing 6,000 vibrations per minute. Alex’s consciousness said “I’m out” and floated to the ceiling to watch. 

Melissa, 38, architect: 

“I finally told someone about my thing. That I wanted to be pissed on. I’d never told anyone because, I mean, come on. He didn’t even hesitate. Just said, ‘When do you want to do this?’ And when we did it, when he was standing over me… I came so hard I sobbed. Because I’d carried that secret for so long, thinking it made me disgusting.” 

Melissa carried this kink around like a live grenade for years. Convinced it made her broken. Then she told one person and he responded like she’d asked him to pick up coffee. “When do you want to do this?” Not “are you serious” or “let me think about it.” Just logistical planning. She came so hard she cried. Not from the piss! From the relief of being seen completely and still wanted. Shame is the only taboo that matters. 

Kat, 32, restaurant manager: 

“Double penetration. Two guys, fully coordinated, and I was just… I can’t even describe it. So full. So overwhelmed. I literally saw stars. Came so hard I forgot where I was. My brain shut off completely. It took three tries to get it right logistically but when it works? Life-changing.” 

Three attempts. Three separate sessions of “wait not that angle” and “okay everyone stop” and probably some nervous laughter. Then, on try number three they nailed it. Kat’s brain experienced a hard reset. Forgot her own location. This is what happens when you treat your body like it deserves the full experience instead of the socially acceptable one. The porn industry didn’t invent this fantasy. They just filmed what people figured out 5000 years ago when buffalo roamed. 

Rachel, 45, attorney: 

“Three hours by myself. Four different toys. Husband had the kids, so I set up like I was conducting an experiment. Worked through everything systematically. Every setting, every combination. Built myself up and backed off probably 10 times. I came so many times I lost count. My whole body was shaking and I couldn’t take it anymore.” 

Rachel treated her body like a research project. Variables: four toys. Method: systematic exploration. Control group: none, because this was purely selfish. She edged herself ten times. Lost count of how many times she came. Kept going until her body literally couldn’t anymore. No performance anxiety. No “is this taking too long?” No wondering if she’s doing it right. Just pure data collection about what makes her leave the planet. Most women never give themselves permission to be this greedy. Rachel gave herself three hours and discovered she’s capable of sustained pleasure. 

I survived that thunderclap migraine. Went to the doctor the next day convinced I’d had a stroke. They ran tests. Everything was fine. Apparently orgasms can sometimes trigger migraines. Who knew? The activist texted me later asking if I was okay. I told her I thought I died. She said that was the goal. 

And that reminded me of another life-altering orgasm. One that also felt a little like a death, and a little like a rebirth. 

Many years ago, when I was still married, I had a general meeting with an actor. I’d written a movie and was looking to cast him. The meeting was professional, brief, forgettable in the way all general meetings are. Except we stayed friendly after. Birthday parties. New Year’s Eve. We’d see each other at restaurants and always gravitate toward each other, that easy friendship between people who like each other but have no reason to be in each other’s lives beyond circumstantial proximity. 

Then I got divorced. Three months after my husband moved out, this man and I somehow ended up out together and then back at his house watching movies. I honestly don’t remember the logistics of how we got there. 

All I remember is what I now call “the montage.” His house overlooking Silver Lake at night. Charli XCX playing. Not just playing. PLAYING. The song “Dreamer” so loud the windows were shaking. Music is my thing. If I feel bass in my cells, if the sound is physically moving through my body, I’m already halfway to another dimension. And this music was rattling my bones. 

We walked into his kitchen and he picked me up. I wrapped my legs around him, straddling him, and we were kissing like people who’d been lost at sea for years, yet totally manicured. He put me on his kitchen island. Then we took off all our clothes right there in the kitchen and fucked on that island with Charli XCX singing “I’m a dreamerrrrrr” on repeat, a deep bass song shaking the walls. I knew Charli would want this for me and this man. 

Then we moved. 

Hallway. 

Bedroom. 

Earlier in the night, we’d been watching Sliver, that deeply horny ’90s erotic thriller that holds up as far as it needs to. It was still playing on the TV in the corner of his bedroom, the icon Sharon Stone naked on a screen the size of a painting, while we fucked in every position we could think of. 

This was the first person I slept with after my divorce. And it was perfect because I’d chosen it. Not randomly. Not sadly. I’d chosen someone I already knew, whose basic character I’d observed over years. 

The thunderclap migraine orgasm with the activist was transcendent because I’d given myself permission to want her, to pursue her, to lie back and let her take me somewhere dangerous. The Silver Lake orgasm was transcendent because I’d given myself permission to choose my own path out of my marriage and into my next chapter. 

Jennifer gave herself permission to surrender control. Alex gave herself permission to leave her body.

Melissa gave herself permission to ask for what she actually wanted. Kat gave herself permission to be overwhelmed. Rachel gave herself permission to be completely selfish for three hours straight. 

Permission is everything. Give it to yourself. Choose people who give it back to you. And then let yourself feel everything without negotiating it down to something more palatable. 

The best orgasm of your life, (and your partner’s, whether it’s casual or committed) is waiting on the other side of permission.