It’s National Orgasm Day on July 31st. No, it really is. My husband discovered the holiday sometime back in late February when he was surfing the net (I wonder what he was looking for when it just “popped up”?) and practically sprinted into the bedroom to tell me. For a big guy with two total knee replacements, he was moving remarkably like Usain Bolt.
“Honey, guess what holiday is on July 31?” he asked, sporting a goofy Cheshire Cat grin. When I failed to come up with the proper answer (Flag Day and Arbor Day were both shot down), he enlightened me: “National Orgasm Day!”
“You’re making that up,” I replied.
“No, it really is on July 31,” he said.
“I mean there is no such thing as National Orgasm Day,” I clarified.
“Sure there is!” He brandished his laptop, anticipating my disbelief.
And there, under the Google search words, “National Orgasm Day,” was proof. Over 600,000 results at my husband’s dexterous fingertips, all pointing to the existence of said holiday.
“So what?” I asked.
“SO WHAT?” he repeated, incredulous. “So what?? We have to start getting in shape for it right away!”
As an American, I understand why we commemorate flags, trees, independence, mothers, fathers, Martin Luther King and the New Year. But adding orgasms to the list – that moment of intense release accompanied by moans, groans, whimpers, thrashing, praise for higher beings, frightening facial expressions and the discharge of sticky fluids – seems a tad self-serving.
And I could see where this was going. A new excuse for pawing at my plaid flannel nightgown late at night and again first thing in the morning. Just in case the “Ejaculation is essential for healthy sperm” and “Intercourse keeps the vagina more elastic” rationales start to wear thin, we now have, “National Orgasm Day is right around the corner” to spur us toward more frequent copulation.
“I’ll start thinking orgasmic thoughts,” I tossed over my shoulder as I headed out the door to happy hour with a few girlfriends, eager to announce the new holiday.
“We start our Christmas shopping months in advance,” he hollered after me. “Why should National Orgasm Day be any different?”
“You’ll never guess what July 31st is,” I greeted my bevy of fifty-somethings.
“Flag Day?” Alyssa suggested.
“Arbor Day?” offered Joanie.
“No, it’s National Orgasm Day and according to my husband, we have to start getting into shape for it now,” I said, struggling to keep a neutral expression.
“Oh, I can see where this is going,” Jenny said, shaking her head with an accompanying eye roll.
“Now that we know it’s a national holiday, how will you celebrate?” I queried the girls.
Herewith, a sampling of their responses:
Alyssa, age 62, mother of eight: “What’s an orgasm?”
Joanie age 54, personal trainer: “Is it ok if I’m alone?”
Deborah, age 58, attorney: “Is it kosher if I fake it?”
Jenny, age 61, retired pediatrician: “Is it like riding a bicycle?”
Lauren, age 50, therapist: “Please, please don’t tell my husband!”
Later that night when I related my friends’ unbridled enthusiasm to my husband, he said he’d been thinking of ways to make this whole pre-event preparation much more exciting.
“Let’s be adventurous,” he proposed. “Let’s strive for more creative orgasms!” Thus our quest began: to elevate that most primitive of acts, that most personal of moments, that pinnacle of intimacy to a new and even more vaulted status in our lives.
But by the end of Week One, along with eight documented orgasms (seven for him) we had also accumulated three sore knees, two strained backs, a weakened wrist, a tweaked shoulder, a few extra few loads of laundry and likely some irritated neighbors.
“I have good news about National Orgasm Day,” my husband gasped on the first morning of Week Two following a particularly grueling grapple on the kitchen counter. “It falls on a Friday this year, so we’ll have all weekend to recover.”