Future Sex by Emily Witt

twinge of panic and ignored the call, then forced myself out into the sunshine, where a cold wind was blowing, to return it. Justine asked how the class had been. I told her that it had been overwhelmingfor me. She again suggested I try the practice. She said that she could not tell me who to OM with or set it up for me, but that if I joined the secret orgasmic meditation group on Facebook I could message a couple of men who might be interested. I joined the Facebook group, and soon received a friendly message from Eli, the man who had led the first meeting I had attended. I liked that he didorgasmic meditation all the time, so that it would be uneventful for him. I asked him to OM, he said yes, and we arranged for a Thursday at noon session at OneTaste. It was a sunny day, and I went running that morning, then showered carefully and shaved my legs. I walked to 47 Moss Street slowly, not listening to music through headphones. I passed a man carrying a bongo drum and a tambourine, a papersign in a window that said “The Center for Sex and Culture Has Moved,” and a lunatic woman with her pants down around her knees, performing a fanciful ballet dance.
    The building on Moss Street was still and quiet. I went through the heavy velvet curtains that divided the room and closed off the event space from the entryway. Two affiliates of OneTaste were there. One, whose name was Henry, gaveme a pint glass filled with green tea and I sat on the couch. Eli entered with Matthew, an older man whom I had met the night of Nicole’s first lecture. Eli and I went upstairs. Off the landing were three carpeted rooms furnished with pillows and chairs. Eli went to gather supplies from a closet: one pillow for him to sit on, a smaller pillow for my head, a woolen yoga blanket, yoga mat, and towelsfor me to lie on. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel more secure?” he asked. I said I didn’t think so. His presence, above all the ease and casualness with which he did these things, was reassuring enough.
    The room was small, its walls painted gray. It had two yellow chairs, white curtains, and exposed wood-beamed ceilings. It was very warm in the room and Eli opened a window to letin a breeze. We made small talk. I learned that he was twenty-eight years old and had quit his job at Apple to work for OneTaste. He asked me which direction I wanted to face, and then, perhaps sensing my inability to decide, said, “Or I can just decide.” I chose to have my head toward the window, feet toward the door. He announced each step he was going to take methodically. He was going to takeoff his shoes. Then he said, “Now it’s the time when you take off your pants.” This was the moment, in a gynecological exam or a bikini wax, when the practitioner left the room, but Eli stayed, and I took off my pants. I asked if I should take off my socks. “Your choice,” he said. I took off my socks. “I’ll take mine off, too,” he said.
    He guided me into a sitting position and took my leg overhis arm. I felt very secure. I could feel his leg against my leg; his arm supported my arm. He set the timer on his phone. He took several deep breaths and began massaging my legs. The pressure of his hands on my legs felt nice. He put on latex gloves. “Now I’m going to begin stroking,” he said.
    Before he had begun, I had thought I was feeling aroused. I could feel the breeze from the windowover me. I thought of Justine’s boisterous display and I worried I might reveal something of myself I didn’t want to reveal to a stranger. Once he began touching me, however, I performed, and experienced, detachment. I didn’t have anything that resembled climax or an orgasm, or feel stimulation in the way that I would have with a vibrator. I felt no desire to have sex with the man holding my legs,but feeling his breath rise and fall against my leg brought a feeling of deep, intense comfort. I was not transported by rapture. This was quiet and still. I