Trouble having orgasms? You need to read this!

The headline on the magazine cover catches my eye. It certainly applies to me. But I have no time to read it now.

I carry on laying out the new magazines in the waiting room. We’re about to open. My first patient will be here soon and I still have to go over his notes.

“Hey, sweetie,” my mom says as I pass her in the hallway. Her hair is the same almost-black color as mine. Like every day, it’s pulled back in a neat bun, and her glasses sit on the end of her nose.

“Morning, Mom,” I say, smiling at her.

“Are you coming for dinner tomorrow?”

“Don’t I always come for dinner every Saturday night?”

“I didn’t know if you had a better offer.”

“Unfortunately not. I have to settle for you and Dad.”

I haven’t had a date in months. After I broke up with Chet, my last boyfriend, I lost interest in dating and men in general. Probably because none of my ex-boyfriends ever satisfied me.

Marcy, our nosy receptionist, pokes her head around the corner and says, “Eloise, your first patient is here.”

“Okay, thanks. Send him to my room. Talk to you later, Mom.”

I quickly re-tie my ponytail and review his notes while he’s in the room. It’s not a complex case. He broke his shoulder two months ago and is now rebuilding the strength in his muscles. This is the third time I’ve seen him and I hope he’s been doing his exercises.

The most frustrating thing about being a physiotherapist is that half the time the people never do their exercises. There’s not much I can do to help them if they don’t.

My parents are both doctors, with their own medical practice. After I finished school, I joined the medical practice as an in-house physiotherapist.

It’s great that the three of us get along well and can work together. We are a close family, and I’m good friends with both my parents and my sister, Sophie.

Sophie’s currently studying medicine at the University of Rochester and plans on joining the practice when she finishes school. She still lives at home with them. I have my own apartment, but we all have dinner together once a week.

No matter how close we are, I still can’t discuss my inability to have an orgasm with them. I don’t know if it’s a medical issue or not anyway. I doubt it.

I don’t know what my problem is.

No boyfriend has ever been able to get me off. And I can hardly get myself off. It doesn’t matter what type of vibrator or sex toy I buy, nothing seems to help.

On rare occasions, I think I have an orgasm. Maybe. I’m not sure. It feels good, but not this mind-blowing experience our society makes an orgasm out to be.

For the rest of the day, I focus on my patients. Half of them have done their exercises, mostly the ones who’ve had broken bones or sprains.

After I finish, I casually walk into the waiting room, and slip the magazine that promises new information on orgasms into my backpack.

“Good night, Marcy,” I say, hoping she didn’t notice me take the magazine. She’s a stickler for the rules, and she’d probably tell my mother on me. I’ll bring it back first thing Monday.

“See you Monday,” Marcy says.

When I get home, I flop down on my couch and pull the magazine out of my backpack. I doubt it’s going to offer me any real solutions, but you never know.

I flip past umpteen glossy perfume and fashion ads until I come to the article.

Can a genital piercing solve your orgasm woes?

Genital piercing? I clench at the very idea.

Clitoral hood piercings are reported to dramatically improve a woman’s ability to climax because they stimulate the clitoris. We’ve talked to three women who have them to find out their experiences.

I read through the interviews, and all three women talk about how their piercings changed their lives.

“I’d never had an orgasm before my piercing, but now my boyfriend is able to give me at least one every time we have sex. It’s life-changing.”

“I didn’t know what I was missing before — now I encourage all my friends to get one!”

“Before I got my piercing I had small orgasms, but now the intensity is unreal.”

I sit up straight, my heart speeding. I’ve never heard of this before. It sounds too good to be true, and I’m always skeptical about these things. But I have to know more. Is there any truth to it?

Grabbing my laptop, I Google genital piercings. I spend the next hour reading and researching them. Everything I find backs up the magazine article. There are countless testimonials from women who’ve had them done and describe them as being life-changing.

There are three types of clitoral hood piercings. The most effective for increasing orgasms is something called a triangle. But apparently only a few women have the right shape of lips to get it.

Could I really get one? I start to wonder more and more. How much would it hurt? There are a lot of testimonials, but no one claims it works in one hundred percent of women. Would it work for me?

After eating a western omelet with toast for dinner, I flick on my Kindle and get back into the book I’m reading. Normally any book engrosses me. But this time when I get to the sexy bit, and it’s talking about mind-blowing waves overcoming her, my mind keeps wandering to the idea of a genital piercing.

I want mind-blowing waves.

Like every night, I go to bed at ten. I’m probably the only twenty-seven-year-old in the country who goes to bed so early, but I need my sleep.

Normally I’m out as soon as my head hits the pillow. Not tonight. I can’t stop thinking about the piercings, and if it really would mean having mind-blowing orgasms.

I flick on my phone, blink from the sudden brightness and Google more.

It says it’s also important to make sure you use a person who knows what they’re doing. No kidding.

Apparently it’s something you get done at a tattoo parlor. I’ve never been to a tattoo parlor. I don’t even think I know anyone with a tattoo. I turn off my phone, and roll the idea around in my head.

By two am, I’m convinced I have to do this. I have to try. The potential payoff is too high not to.

After an hour of tossing and turning I grab my phone and Google ‘Where to get a genital piercing in Rochester.’

There are two options — Hell in a Needle and Incredible Ink.

If I’m really going to go through with this, I don’t think it’s going to be in a place called Hell in a Needle. Besides, Incredible Ink is near the art galleries and studios in the Village Gate Square. I can maybe handle that, it makes it arty. Somehow, I’ll find the courage to phone Incredible Ink in the morning, before I have time to change my mind about going through with this.

Satisfied, I fall into a deep sleep and don’t wake up until nine-thirty. Normally I’m up every day at seven, even if it is a Saturday.

The first thought in my head is about the piercing. I’m just as determined as before to go through with it.

I Google the phone number for Incredible Ink. They open at ten. I have thirty minutes to work up the nerve.

Over two cups of coffee and a bowl of Cheerios, I get more and more excited by the idea. I want it now. I hope they can fit me in today.

At one minute after ten I hit dial.