Perched atop an exam table at
Rutgers’ Imaging Center, twitching bare feet, I glance from the standard
medical gown keeping me cold to drab linoleum floor to unforgiving fluorescent
ceiling lights. The back wall’s landscape mural fails to distract me from the
elephant in the room: A functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) machine
with an offensively small cylindrical opening. I’ve volunteered to participate
in a study that requires masturbating from within this behemoth while a team of
scientists led by Barry Komisaruk, PhD, a Professor of Psychology and the
author of several books on human sexuality, monitors my brain.
In spite of mounting anxiety, I
allow Komisaruk and his colleague, Meryl Streep lookalike Nan Wise, LCSW, to enclose
my upper body in a cage-like device. Within seconds, I can no longer budge my
neck or head—at all. Thanks to large headphones connected to a microphone
through which Komisaruk will eventually communicate with me, I am also deaf to
my surroundings.
I remind myself that the aim of this experiment—to create a
sensory homunculus (a map, essentially) of the female brain during climax, the
male equivalent of which has long existed—is honorable and essential. But no
matter how helpful my participation might be to the 24 to 37 percent of women
who report trouble orgasming, the fact is that I am supremely uncomfortable,
and I have never felt less sexy.
How the hell
am I supposed to get myself off under these conditions?
As Komisaruk
and Wise guide me into recline, each grasping one clammy hand, I try to drain
my mouth of fast accumulating saliva. But the natural chin motion required to
do so isn’t possible.
Overwhelmed by this additional sacrifice in body
functionality, I flail arms and kick up legs, a turtle on its back desperate to
turn over.
“Deep
breaths,” Komisaruk coaches while releasing me from headgear.
“I’m so sorry,” I clamor.
The truth is that we know embarrassingly little about female
orgasm, a phenomenon that’s less easily measured than its more mechanical,
splash-finale male counterpart. So when presented with the opportunity to help
Dr. Komisaruk decode the female brain—and, however selfishly, to obtain some
information on the inner workings of my personal sensual department—I couldn’t
resist. Luckily, Komisaruk welcomes volunteers, most of whom find him by word
of mouth, like I did.
A week
before I trekked from New York City to Rutgers campus in Newark, New Jersey,
Wise rang me to chat about my upcoming contribution to science. She explained
that the data they planned to collect would be grouped with other participants’
to create a time course depiction of the areas activated at the start of
stimulation, throughout build-up, and during orgasmic resolution.
“The more we
know, the better equipped we’ll be to help the millions of women suffering from
Female Sexual Dysfunction (FSD),” she said. “There are even potential
pain-blocking applications to understanding these neural pathways.”
Visual
stimulus would not be provided during the experiment, Wise said, and while
dildos were permitted, a clitoral climax was preferred for the sake of
consistency (most participants before me had opted against a prop).
“One other
thing I have to emphasize is that you can’t move anything other than your
hand.”
“I can’t move my hips? At all?” I gasped, envisioning the pelvic
thrusting upon which I rely heavily when touching myself down there.
“Our heads
are vulnerable when any body part budges, and even a millimeter wriggle will
compromise the data, Sweetie. It’s doable, though, I promise.”
Wise was
right. I was not their first guinea pig, after all. Plus, there are people out
there who report thinking themselves to climax.
“I can do
it,” I declared. I would just have to practice.
Seven days
later, I entered Rutger’s Psychology Department somewhat proficient at playing
statue while masturbating.
Wise greeted
me in an oversized white blouse, hair tousled, air calm. She introduced me to
Dr. Komisaruk, who, in black slacks and a blue oxford, seemed refreshingly at
ease as well.
“I realize
we demand a lot from our subjects,” said Komisaruk while scuttling about to
collect release forms and gather the tools to shape my mask.
As I lay
atop a cushioned table, Komisaruk customized sheets of white mesh plastic to
match the contours of my face and the back of my head after heating them in hot
water. The finished product would make a solid Halloween costume, I joked.
By that
point, any reservations I had about performing the most intimate of acts in
front of people were sidelined by the kinship I felt with Komisaruk and Wise,
who clearly cared deeply about their research. There would be four others I had
not yet met watching me through an observation window while I went about my
business, but I felt good about my role in the project and those guiding me
through it.
If only I
had been able to preserve this sense of well-being when transferred from office
to hospital.
At the Imaging Center an hour later, robbed of too many faculties
in an environment neither cozy nor sensual, I continue to panic.
Freed from
restraints, I hunch over to heave in and out.
“This isn’t
an abnormal reaction,” says Komisaruk.
“Drink some
water,” advises Wise.
Eventually,
I manage to sit upright, at which point I note four pairs of strange eyes
peering back at me. Suddenly, it matters how these four lab coats might see me.
My special rotating hand movement! My o-face! Shouldn’t we all at least have
dinner first?
At Wise’s
behest, I drag myself into the observation room to rest, where a young male
technician and three female students greet me. Each congratulates me on my
courage. One girl who holds a copy of “Do Gentleman Really Prefer Blondes?”
kindly briefs me on some of the science behind sex, love, and attraction.
How can I
disappoint such a warm group so dedicated to an important cause?
Half an hour
and a few sips of water later, I collect my bearings.
Positioned
inside the fMRI, I breeze through preliminary exercises. I complete five rounds
of kegels in 30-second increments punctuated by 30-second rest periods. It’s
easy to clench and release my vaginal muscles when instructed, but I have to
work hard not to do so while at rest because I’m still thinking about the
motion. To distract myself, I hum “Like A Virgin.” When Komisaruk asks me to
“commence nipple tapping” (another warm up) in the husky voice of an older man,
I manage not to crack up.
Finally, I
am told to “begin clitoral self-stimulation.”
When a few
of my go-to circular motions prove futile, I begin to perspire. Again, I am the
young adult struggling to decipher her anatomy. I curse my body for producing
moisture in my armpits rather than my private parts, but self-loathing only
leads to more sweating.
This is when
I realize that negativity and self-doubt are self-defeating. To orgasm, I have
to feel good. I have to get in the right mindset in spite of my current
confines.
To separate
myself from my surroundings, my discomfort, and my audience, I imagine some of
the best sex I’ve ever had. I relive the flirtation that stemmed from instant
chemistry with my current boyfriend. I remember how we couldn’t resist ripping
each other’s clothes off as soon as we were alone together. How I straddled him
while he looked at me with those charmingly devilish eyes. I recall the
extended seconds between the times at which the tip and shaft of his penis
entered me for the first time. I become wet and aroused, as I was then.
At the onset
of orgasm, I raise my left hand (the agreed upon signal). When the sensation
passes, I lower it, smiling.
Afterward,
Dr. Komisaruk and his team thank me profusely. Immersed in the after glow of
fulfillment, I am happy to have helped, and happier yet to know that I’m
capable of letting go in the least promising circumstances.
A few weeks
later, I return to Rutgers to review the results with Dr. Komisaruk and Wise,
who point out that my scans depict neurological activation in the expected
regions. This is reassuring, but the green dots speckled across my brain’s
pleasure centers seem like just that in the end. Of greater note is the news
that I’m a “good candidate for multiple orgasms” since I climaxed within a
relatively short amount of time (2 minutes and 6 seconds).
But the real
takeaway is recalling my fMRI achievement—and what it means about the
elasticity of our minds and bodies. The possibilities, it seems, are truly
limitless.
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