The living room window sweat thin streams of water, revealing a kaleidoscope of fall leaves as I came in Luca’s* mouth. My moans joined the chorus of “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes playing in the background as his tongue rolled gently up and down my clit.
“Stop, stop, stop,” I begged, my legs shaking as the orgasm rushed through my body.
I could feel his smile on my inner thighs as he closed them together. He pushed himself up on his knees, wiping his mouth while grabbing a blanket from the couch to cover me.
For the last three days, Luca and I had left the confines of his apartment only to grab a late lunch, attend pre-arranged plans with friends, and have a goodbye dinner date. The rest of the weekend had been spent with only one plan in mind: sex.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back 48 hours before my pussy was being licked like gelato on a hot summer day in the south of Italy.
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In early November of last year, I took a trip to New York to visit my best friend, Jamie*. Five months fresh from a breakup, my sex life was limited to masturbation and tantra—something neither my friends nor listeners of my sex coaching podcast, “Detrás de Kama,” could believe. How was it possible that someone who dedicated her life to helping people have better sex was not having any herself?
For me, it was simple. Years before, I decided I wasn’t going to have sex just for the sake of having it. Even if my connection with that person didn’t become a relationship, it had to be pleasurable for both of us, period. And after incorporating tantra into my toolkit, I could never look at sex the same way again. Although I still enjoyed casual flings here and there, tantra taught me to connect with myself and others more deeply, to dive into the senses and become one with pleasure rather than chasing the quick-hit high of a hookup.
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The city flooded with torrential, chilling rains that weekend, driving Jamie and me indoors for the initial part of the trip. Ever the biggest supporter of my sexploits, my best friend urged me to go on a date while I was there.
I dusted off my Bumble account and started swiping. That’s when Luca and I matched. Right away, we established a cheeky rapport over New Orleans soul music, our mutual love of cocktails, and his intrigue re: what a sex coach actually does.
“I’m only in town for a few nights,” I told him. “Then it’s back to Europe for me.”
“If we’re going to do this, we have to take it slow,” I said. “Would you cook a pizza in a microwave?”The next day, we met at a bar “just for drinks.” I feared my rustiness in the dating scene would be obvious, but I still showed up with confidence. A few minutes later, Luca joined me. He was just my type: tall, with black curls that framed his face, some dangling over his thick-framed vintage glasses where deep hazelnut eyes smiled back at me.
“Ciao!” he said, kissing me on each cheek. “Shall we order something?”
His Italian accent was very light. You could tell he’d been living abroad for a while, but by the second cocktail, it became more evident—hand gestures and all. Regardless, I had a soft spot for intellectual Italians, and my wet panties confirmed it.
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After talking for hours, the bar had closed but my appetite was wide open. He offered to make me some fusilli back home, an offer I couldn’t refuse.
We hadn’t spent more than five minutes in his walkway when I knew the last thing we’d eat that night was pasta. He grabbed my face and kissed me fast, rushing to take my clothes off—and that’s where I stopped him. Puzzled, he smiled in confusion.
“If we’re going to do this, we have to take it slow,” I said. “Would you cook a pizza in a microwave?”
His eyes widened, “What?”
I repeated myself, “Would you cook a pizza in a microwave?”
“No, that’s disgusting,” he waved his hands in the air.
“Exactly,” I said. “I’m an oven. Why would you want to rush a perfectly good sexual experience where only you’d have fun?”
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Laughing at my metaphor, he agreed. Kissing me more passionately and slowly this time, he walked me toward his couch. Running his fingers through my hair as I straddled him, he presented me with an interesting request.
“I want you to coach me,” he whispered as he slid his tongue into my mouth. I laughed, “I don’t sleep with my clients; what do you mean?”
I knew exactly what he meant. He could be a professor at an elite university all he wanted, but sensuality, intimacy, and sexual liberation are not typically on the syllabus at higher education institutions.
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The first time, the sex was as it usually is—awkward, finding our groove, discovering he really had no idea what to do with his hands. By the second time, things already improved. We spent the night doing tantric exercises, synchronizing our bodies to each other’s touch and breath. Taking turns giving each other a sensual massage, he slowly learned that his hands could do more than rub a clit like a DJ turntable. Caressing each other’s bodies, we were each fully present in what the other was doing—no rushing or expecting the experience to take us to a specific place.
For me, as a sex coach, one of the most life-changing practices I’ve implemented in my own sex life is to stop making orgasms the end-all-be-all of my sexual experience. When I changed my mentality to simply enjoying the other person, voicing my needs, and listening to my partner’s wants as well, orgasms came naturally. And over the next three days with Luca, I lost count of just how many of those leg-shaking moments ensued. His first-floor apartment became a nest of intimacy. We drank coffee in oversized T-shirts while gazing at each other, only to end up bent over the breakfast table as our desire poured over.
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On our last day together, I lay on the floor of his living room, contemplating the reflection of the red and orange leaves penetrating the window and bouncing off the walls as he kissed and licked every corner of my body. It was his final lesson.
“Soften your tongue and explore,” I instructed. “Think of my body as an ice cream on a cone; how would you eat it?” He laughed again at the analogy, but he understood what I meant. He started by kissing my clavicle. Then he moved down to my breasts and cupped them, licking and nibbling gently.
They reacted to his touch and the warmth of his breath upon them, becoming increasingly firm. I relaxed into the pillows that lay scattered across the rug, concentrating on the sensations of his tongue as he slid down my abdomen, feeling somehow as if I were on a sensual journey home. (They do say all roads lead to Rome, right?)
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He paused to peck my belly button and cupped my butt cheeks before grabbing a pillow and, like I taught him earlier, placing it underneath my pelvis to raise my vulva to his mouth. Breathing softly, he relaxed his tongue, showing off his clitoral knowledge and taking care of the legs, not just the tip. I released soft moans, urging him to continue.
He took one hand and began masturbating, which only made me wetter. I buried my fingers in his dark curls and he glanced up at me, his eyes filling with satisfaction at my pleasure. After our final moments together, it was time for me to go. The student had learned everything I was going to teach him.
I returned to Europe with a newfound confidence in my skills—not just in coaching others on how to find a rhythm that works well for them in their intimate lives, but in how they’ve helped me improve my own sex life. After all, what’s the point of having all this knowledge and not cashing in on the multi-orgasmic pleasure potential of my own sexpertise every now and then?
*Name has been changed.
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Karla Montalván is a seasoned editor, writer, and sex coach with a decade-long career. Her work has graced the pages of People en Español, People magazine, FIERCE, and mitú. Inspired by the lack of access to sexual education for Latinas, Montalván launched the Detrás de Kama podcast, where she fearlessly explores intimate topics, offering insight and empowerment to her audience.
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