I’m in the backseat of a car on my way to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, on a beautiful spring day to meet two people I have never met, and to take part in a most unlikely experiment. The e-mails organizing this affair—so far I had talked to no one in person—had only one specific request: that I wear something with “easy access.” I adore a costuming challenge and my closet displayed that telltale, far-flung wreckage that so often precedes a date, particularly one with sexual promise.

What I wore from the waist up was, however, the only thing that would show, so I chose a black halter with transparent chiffon connecting the silk ribbon tied around my neck to the fitted, bustier top. At the center of the décolleté I fastened a delicate, hand-painted, antique pendant that featured the image of a demure young woman in a head scarf, blue cloak, and red brocade dress. It is unclear if she is a virgin heading for the nunnery or a prostitute heading for the street: the perfect emblem for this escapade. I slipped on my favorite black, ankle-length, silk mermaid skirt and very high-heeled suede boots—I was grateful later for their superb traction. And no panties.

Sitting in the car my prevailing concern ramped up to a pretty high pitch: What if I can’t come? And there it was, that pervasive, over-arching concern of almost every woman every time she has sex, unless, of course, she is alone, in which case the outcome is pretty much a slam-dunk. Other people have been interfering with our pleasure since Adam met Eve and wanted to climb inside and misdirect her from herself. Men may have it hard, but we have it harder. While I knew that womankind was not exactly depending on my success, I really didn’t want to lose one more for the team.

Arriving, I press the buzzer and climb a few steps to meet Clayton Cubitt, a photographer and filmmaker, and his partner of 16 years, Katie James, the “female assistant.” They are both very attractive—Clayton, dark, chiseled, and tall and Katie, languid, soft, and beautiful.

Invited to sit down in the spacious, high-ceiled living room of the loft, I was offered tea. I don’t remember if I drank it. There were so many books around in soaring piles that they seemed to define the space more than the outer walls. I saw Faulkner, Nietzsche, and Roland Barthes communing in one pile. Cubitt confesses to having “a bit of a problem with books,” likening it to an “an addiction.”

“Hysterical Literature,” Cubitt’s online video project, debuted in August of 2012 on YouTube with Session One starring the charming, girlish alt-porn star Stoya. Stylishly dressed in a Vivienne Westwood plaid dress, Stoya sits behind a small table and begins reading a book. But soon something goes wrong: her enunciation becomes uneven, distracted, and she keeps smiling inappropriately. Less than six minutes later she is unable to continue reading because she is having an orgasm. A massive one. What is going on?

Stoya’s session quickly went viral and has received more than 16,000,000 views, a number that, interestingly, dwarfs by many millions those of any of her impressive X-rated clips on free porn sites. This begs the question: Perhaps men do, on occasion, want to use their own erotic imaginations and not always be blinded by those relentless close-ups?

Cubitt has since released nine more sessions on YouTube and on his own elegant, dedicated site. The participants are acquaintances of Cubitt’s: writers, performers, artists, rebels.