The more the religious fundamentalists go on,
condemning all sexuality as evil nasty perversion,
The more I am moved to go on in praise of orgasms.
I dunno, I guess I'm just reactionary that way.
But I remember all too well growing up in an era
in which we had so little knowledge of our own sexy bits
and the fun uses to which they could be put,
It's a wonder any woman even knew what an orgasm was.
I'm pretty damn sure my mother didn't,
from the way, in response to my timid teenaged questions,
she looked away from me
and muttered something to the effect that
"sex wasn't all that people make it out to be."
Even now, that saddens and angers me,
That my mom went to her grave never experiencing
the joy of a good rousing orgasm.
So when I hear anyone try to censor the good news
about this joyous life experience,
Through condemnation or legislation
or whatever the hell they've got,
Well, I find myself getting a little nutzo.
I start daydreaming about becoming an evangelist for orgasm.
Maybe head downtown some day, armed with signs, pamphlets,
and a cheapass bull-horn,
And set up shop on a street corner.
Preferably across the way from one of those
Bible-thumper street preachers,
so I can instigate a little competetive preaching smackdown,
see whose message draws the bigger crowd.
Or I dream of starting the First Church of Makin' Whoopie--
complete with 501-c-3 tax-exempt status, yet--
and going door-to-door with helpful magazines,
asking people if they want to accept the Big O into their lives.
I think it could really take off as a religion,
This orgasm-evangelism thang.
So the next time you hear the doorbell,
and look out and see a couple of women on your doorstep
with armfuls of magazines, don't worry--
instead of the Jehovah's Witnesses,
it might just be the O-Witnesses,
Emissaries from your local Church of Whoopie
spreading the Good News About Orgasm
Across this beleaguered land—can I get a witness?
Like they say: the truth shall set you free.
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