Every now and then, Sturm interrupted the massage to utter words of encouragements or affirmations like, “You’re doing this” and “I love the way you're breathing. The little ‘hmmms’ are adorable.”

I noticed that he avoided touching my breasts in the beginning, sweeping his hands in circular motions near, but not on them. Eventually, after massaging both arms and my neck, he returned to my breasts, cupping them in his hands and rubbing his thumbs over my nipples. I felt light-headed and tingly in my hands, due to the constant deep breaths I was taking, and at one point, I experienced sharp pains of hunger. When Sturm started feeling around my abdomen, inching ever closer to my vagina, I felt a sudden urge to pee that lasted for the rest of the session.

I can’t say that I was aroused — at least not psychologically — but I definitely felt “energy” moving around inside me. It was confusing because my body had gone from a place of deep relaxation during the massage to an alert awakening caused by the fondling.

But I was committed to seeing this yoni massage through to the end, so when Sturm asked if he could remove my bottoms, I let him, lifting up my hips so that he could slide them off me.

That changed the mood drastically.







Suddenly, the massage felt sexual and dirty and decidedly not spiritual. Little did I know it was about to get even more so.







Sturm placed his hand on my bare vagina, instructing me to take a succession of deep breaths and to release them with an audible sigh. "Breath down into your yoni," he told me. "Let's try and send more energy down there."

Then he asked me a question I had not been expecting, one that would end up changing the course of the massage: “What is your favorite kind of sex?”

Instead of answering, I giggled, confused as to why he would ask me that.

He tried again: “Like, do you like it light, gentle, free? Or is it rough? Or sensual?”

Had I been thinking clearly, I would have answered more chastely, but instead I responded factually, as if I were taking a survey of some sort.

“Um, I like it rough,” I said. “Like when my boyfriend chokes me.”

Realizing that I was giving him the wrong impression lest he think I wanted him to throttle me during our yoni session, I added, “but with a sensual edge, I guess.”







“So how would it feel if I gave you a little bit of that energy?” Sturm replied. “Do you want to go there with me?”







I nodded my head, hoping that he somehow understood what I really meant. I could have spoken up or said something to make sure he knew I didn’t want to be literally banged around, but I kept quiet. I figured I was tough. I figured I could take it, whatever “it” would be.

With one hand, Sturm pinned me down, choking my neck at one point and shoving the side of my face into the pillow. With the other hand, he inserted his fingers into my vagina. As he fingered me, he leaned in close, pressing his face near mine, and I worried he was going to kiss me. He placed my hands on his thighs and I grabbed them as he straddled my body, the wooden bed frame hitting the wall noisily as if we were having sex. My breasts were bouncing up and down, and I was surprised to find myself moaning with pleasure as he thrust his fingers inside of me.







“Oh, there’s that yoni,” Sturm said eventually, his body sticky with sweat. “Now I feel her. Mmmm.”







I wondered if his dick was hard as he fingered me, and I have feeling that had I reached around to check, he wouldn't have minded. But though I was panting and gyrating my hips, it wasn’t long before I was ready for the violent finger-banging to be over. Even though it felt not-terrible or physically painful, mentally I was dissociated — not aroused in the least and a bit too aware of how weird the whole situation was.

I was ready for Sturm to stop. I knew I would never reach orgasm no matter how long Sturm played with me. Not only is it really difficult for me to experience one, but it’s especially so with a guy I have no sexual history with or attraction to. And let’s not forget that my friend was next door, hearing everything.

“OK, OK, OK,” I said, in an attempt to get him to stop. “That’s good.”

He took the hint and stopped pumping his fingers. For the next few minutes, we did a series of breathing exercises and a short guided meditation, wherein I was told to let my body float, to “just let go.”

With my eyes closed, I had no idea where Sturm’s hands were. I was pretty sure I couldn’t feel them inside of me, but with all of the deep breathing and envisioning he was instructing me to do, I couldn’t be sure.



I let out a few more loud, audible exhales at Sturm’s behest, before he let me rest with my eyes closed for a minute.

“One more deep breath,” he said breaking the short silence. “Then I’m going to remove my fingers, OK?” It turned out, he’d had two of his digits inside of me the whole time.

When he pulled them out, it hurt and felt as uncomfortable as I knew it would. But, given my vaginismus, I was impressed that Sturm had been able to keep his fingers inside of me for so long without me knowing.







Was this progress? I wondered. If I were to do more sessions with Sturm, might I be able to combat the discomfort I experience whenever things are put inside of me?







I didn’t have time to dwell on that, because Sturm then laid down next to me to gab about the session.

“Wow, I’m sweating,” he said, flopping down next to me. “That was great though. I just had to understand.”

He was talking about my yoni. He said he’d learned a lot about it through our session, and proceeded to tell me about it.

“So, my perspective on your yoni is that loving, doting attention, she’s, like, fine with it, but it’s not going to get her all juicy and aroused,” Sturm said, telling me things I already knew about my body. “But then, once we brought that other energy in, she was like ‘Boop. I’m open. Let’s go.’ ”

Sturm told me I could improve in the future by keeping my eyes open and making more of a sound when I exhaled because “that can help take you there.” He also told me that at one point, “it seemed to [him] like [I was] pretty close to coming,” which bothered me.

How would he know how my body felt inside, let alone what I look or sound like when I’m about to come? It seemed presumptuous to come to such a conclusion about someone you don’t even know, and it struck me as something a guy might say to his friends in the locker room.

I found my panties on the floor and slipped them back on, resuming the cross-legged position we had originally been in to start the session. We swept our arms in the air, symbolizing the closing of the bubble, and I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that the session was both over and that I could finally go pee.

But before I could, Sturm had one last request: “Can I give you a hug?” I obliged.

Because his hands were dirty and he had sweat so much during session, Sturm then said he was going to go wash-up in the bathroom. For reasons I can’t explain, I told him he could take a shower if he wanted to, which he took me up on. I guess sometimes I act hospitable even though that’s far from how I’m feeling at the time.

While he was showering, I rendezvoused with my friend, who was in a hurry to leave, because she had a class to teach.

But she stayed long enough to ask me one vital question: “Were you guys having sex? Because it sure sounded like it.”