Women's Health July 3, 2026 0 Comments

How I Lost My Orgasm After Years of Effortless Pleasure—and the Surprising Hands-On Fix That Changed Everything

Ever hit that baffling moment when your body suddenly forgets how to throw the party it used to rock so effortlessly? Yeah, me too. Imagine cruising through a lively phase—dating around, feeling invincible—and then, outta the blue, the grand finale just… disappears. No fireworks, no confetti, just a resounding silence in the pleasure department. That’s the puzzle I faced—a frustrating, head-scratching loss of my own orgasms that turned the bedroom from a thrill zone into an anxiety hotspot. But here’s the kicker: it wasn’t just about the physical mechanics; it was a full-on reboot of how I’d been with my body, my mind, my voice. To tackle this, I dived into an unexpected realm—sexological bodywork—a hands-on, deeply mindful approach that challenged every assumption I had about pleasure, control, and safety. Curious how taking back the reins reshaped my experience and why sometimes the biggest breakthroughs begin with simply feeling safe in your own skin? Let’s unravel this journey together.

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10 min read

“Six years ago when I first moved to LA, I went through a slut phase,” I said with a laugh. I was sitting on a chair in the living room of Mary Shuler, a sexological bodyworker who had agreed to help me through some recent struggles in the bedroom. “I dated multiple people at a time and it was pretty easy for me to orgasm with all of them,” I continued. “Then a few years ago, that changed.”

To quote Samantha from Sex and the City, I’d “lost my orgasms.” The issue started three or four years ago. At first, I chalked it up to poor chemistry—our bodies just weren’t in sync, and that’s why it took more time and effort for me to orgasm. But when it happened with multiple people, it started to feel like a pattern. Fantasizing or even clenching my leg muscles sometimes helped, but more often than not, trying to orgasm with a partner required me to take matters into my own hands or break out my vibrator.

Inevitably, this made sex less exciting and more anxiety-inducing, with a broken record of “When will I come?” playing in my head. Let’s just say, this put an unceremonious end to my slut phase. What was the point of having a ton of sex if I wasn’t actually going to enjoy it?

I still masturbated regularly, but even then, it felt like I had to try to orgasm by watching porn to get turned on, rubbing my clit really hard, or, when all else failed, using my Magic Wand on the strongest setting.

As a sex therapist, I’ve helped multiple clients navigate intimacy issues. But none of my tried-and-true strategies were working on myself. So, I decided to seek out a lesser-known resource: sexological bodywork.

Unlike sex therapists, sexological bodyworkers describe themselves as hands-on sex educators. They use mindfulness, breathwork, movement, and one-way touch (the bodyworker touches the client; the client doesn’t touch the bodyworker) to help people who are experiencing sexual dysfunction, shame, or trauma gain a greater understanding of how their bodies work and respond to sensation.

When I reached out to Shuler, who has practiced bodywork for 35 years, she told me that she also incorporates her background as a deep tissue structural massage therapist and pelvic floor specialist into her sessions. She looks at the physical, biochemical, emotional, familial, and religious factors influencing sexuality and the body because, she explained, when you “move the tissue, you also move the emotional and spiritual information in it.”

But before engaging in any physical touch with a client, a sexological bodyworker typically begins their first session by conducting an intake. In Shuler’s cozy living room, we sat opposite each other as she asked me questions about my upbringing, masturbation habits, fantasies, and past relationships, all while taking fastidious notes. I jotted down my own, including something Shuler said that really resonated with me: “Letting go in your body requires feeling safe with the person.”

I’d assumed my problem was purely physical—my body just wasn’t working the way it used to—but after hearing that, I began to think there was an emotional aspect that I’d previously overlooked. Several of my recent sexual partners had not listened when I asked them to try different things, or rushed toward intercourse, solely focused on their own orgasm.

I prided myself on being a feminist who believed equality in the bedroom was just as important as equality in the boardroom, and I preached that to my clients. But I’d also grown up reading magazines and hearing from other women (when they dared to talk about sex at all) that the trick to orgasm was “letting go” and “losing control.” This made me, even at 35, feel guilty about asking for what I wanted in the bedroom. I was scared that being too “bossy” might turn off my partner. So, if a man couldn’t—or wouldn’t—learn the first time, I’d simply take care of things myself.

After we talked for an hour or so, Shuler threw out a few suggestions. One was to take a break from vibrators, which I’d been using up to several times a week for the past few years. While opinions on vibrators vary drastically—in fact, there’s research showing vibrator users experience easier arousal and orgasms—they can also get someone in the habit of requiring high amounts of stimulation, Shuler explained. Growing accustomed to climaxing with a Magic Wand on the strongest setting, for instance, likely made me less responsive to a partner’s touch.

She also suggested that the pressure I put on myself to orgasm was getting me stuck in my head. As a sex-positive person, I expect an orgasm every time, and I don’t feel satisfied when sex ends without one—nor do I want to fake orgasms since that deprives both me and my partner of real pleasure. These are worthy goals, Shuler assured me, but when orgasm becomes an obligation, it can be counterproductive. Worrying about your sexual performance can create a self-perpetuating cycle where the worry itself impedes pleasure.

“When will I come? When will I come?” had become the soundtrack of my sex life. The toxic refrain drowned out all other thoughts, even the ones as simple as, “This feels good.”

Shuler challenged me to question whether there is a “right” way, frequency, or time frame with which to orgasm. I reflected on how my family raised me to value efficiency when it came to my work and how that had subconsciously informed my approach to everything else, including pleasure. If I was going to spend my precious time and effort having sex, it needed to be worth it, and the way I knew sex was “worth it” was having an orgasm. This, I realized, had made me feel like I needed to finish as fast as possible when what I really desired in the bedroom was to slow down and stay in the moment.

The first session left me with a lot to think about, but the second and third sessions were when the bodywork actually began. Sexological bodyworkers press on external and internal pelvic muscles to identify and release tension, as orgasmic ability can be influenced by muscle tightness or tone. Studies suggest, for instance, that stronger pelvic floor muscles lead to stronger and more frequent orgasms, and tension in the pelvic floor can lead to pain during sex or cause difficulty orgasming by impeding blood flow.

At the beginning of our second session, Shuler had me lie on a cushioned massage table and began massaging my shoulders, neck, and stomach before moving her hands to my vagina. As relaxing music played in the background, it felt like a cross between a regular massage and an ob-gyn appointment.

I groaned in discomfort as she massaged my abdomen and felt slight soreness inside my vagina. Shuler told me that this pain stems from tight muscles, which is common due to aspects of modern everyday life, like sitting at a desk all day. (People with these concerns can also be treated with pelvic floor physical therapy.)

As Shuler massaged me, she also had me speak any thoughts that came to mind, as sexological bodyworkers believe “the issue is in the tissues,” meaning problems with our bodies reflect underlying emotions. I told her that when she touched the area over my uterus, my mother came to mind, and I realized she had caused me to feel ashamed of my sexuality. I still remember her telling me to change my clothes whenever I wore a miniskirt, and calling it “embarrassing” when I tried asking her questions about sex.

The third session was similar to the second, involving external and internal massage, but I started to feel more comfortable talking to Shuler about my sex life while she worked on me. We talked about the lingering shame I experienced around working in the sexuality field and being open online about my sexuality, and how worries about my physical appearance often got in the way of being present in my body. Even though I’d spent my adult life helping people overcome sexual stigma, I still had my own hang-ups. The only way to get over them was to work through them.

By the fourth session, it was time to do what sexological bodyworkers call “witnessing,” where they watch you masturbate to see what’s happening firsthand. I got back on the table and did my best to touch myself as if I were alone with Shuler silently observing. Feeling self-conscious, I closed my eyes to try to forget she was there. But instead of focusing on the task at hand, a dozen different thoughts popped into my head—work, social events, whatever else was on my to-do list—nothing remotely sexy or relaxing.

So, I wasn’t surprised when Shuler interrupted the “witnessing” session to say I was breathing shallowly and that I seemed to have difficulty turning off my mind. She then explained that pleasure stems from focusing on what you are feeling in your body, and deep breathing helps activate the parasympathetic nervous system so you can relax enough to become aroused. Shuler encouraged me to take a few deep breaths to recenter myself, and though I tried my best to take her advice, it didn’t work. I got close to orgasm, then lost it. But this time, I understood why.

Having someone watch me masturbate made me feel even more self-conscious, which was exactly what happened when I was with a partner. Trying to focus on something else only left me distracted and disconnected from my body. I felt the pressure to perform, and I buckled under it.

After our fifth and final bodywork session, I wanted to see if anything had changed. Inspired by her advice to stop placing pressure on myself, I masturbated two days later using my hand without the goal of orgasm. It was advice I’d heard before but resisted—it wasn’t satisfying to get aroused without a release—but this time, I decided to take it seriously.

I began by breathing deeply and relaxing my pelvic muscles, practicing the exercises Shuler had taught me. She’d also suggested I incorporate my entire body into self-pleasure to get myself in the mood and stay more in the moment, so I ran my fingers over my stomach and hips, lightly caressing the skin. As my arousal increased, my hand dipped between my legs, stroking my clitoris gently. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed touching myself for its own sake. It felt like a weight off me, and I could appreciate the subtle peaks and troughs of pleasure.

Several days later, I met up with a friend-with-benefits who offered to go down on me. As usual, my mind felt noisy as I began worrying about whether or not I’d orgasm. But now, I had the tools Shuler had taught me: I focused on breathing deeply and allowed myself to feel pleasure without a goal, leading my arousal to build.

Then, something occurred to me. I did not have to give my sexual partner full control and put the fate of my orgasm in his hands. I could harness my dominant side—the side that my mother had not taught me to show or gotten to show herself.

I began giving him specific instructions: “Put your finger in.” “Lick my clit again.” “Don’t stop.” “Go back to what you were doing before.” Sure, I’d given partners instructions before, but never this demanding or specific. By the time he finally eased off and lay beside me for a cuddle session, I’d had multiple orgasms.

As we cuddled, I opened up to him about how I’d been feeling during the encounter—something I usually didn’t feel comfortable doing with sexual partners. “I kept feeling like I was on the edge then losing it,” I said.

He reassured me: “It happens.”

Suddenly, I realized how much shame I was able to let go of simply by talking about what I was ashamed of. I was reminded of what Shuler said in our first session, “Letting go in your body requires feeling safe with the person.” I think I was finally able to orgasm with a partner because I’d felt safe enough to be vulnerable with him. My body had known it before I even did.

A few days later, I met someone at a party and went home with him. Before we started hooking up, I told him, “I’m nervous that I won’t orgasm or that it will tire you out to try.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I want to please you. I’m not on any timeline.”

Even though he was basically a stranger, that made me feel safe. So, I got even more specific in my instructions: “Move your finger downward.” “To the right.” “Wider circles.” “Faster.” I was in control, but I was able to let go, soaking in each sensation. Instead of rushing to the finish line, I gave my orgasm the chance to build and hit me by surprise. Trust me when I say it did.

Losing my orgasms, it turned out, stemmed in part from losing my voice. Thanks to partners who had put their pleasure first or been hesitant to attend to mine, I’d spent years worrying about being too aggressive, too bossy, too pushy, too loud—when what I really needed was to be more direct in expressing my desire. But it was equally important to learn, first on my own, then with a partner, to let go of orgasm as a goal and just feel. Ultimately, the trick was finding a balance of both: Feeling safe enough to say absolutely everything I wanted, then relaxing with the trust that this guidance was enough for my partner to get me there.

Suzannah Weiss is a freelance writer, certified sex educator, and sex/love coach whose work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, New York Magazine, and more