Every now and then someone will discover something that just makes your day a bit harder. All these years I thought it was just we girls who were multi-orgasmic, but it turns out that men are as well. It’s taken men centuries to find the clitoris, but it turns out they’ve got one as well. Well at least a metaphoric one, somewhere in their open loving hearts that, once stimulated, can lead to shattering orgasmic enlightenment.

According to tantric teachers, and those who practise holding the ejaculation flame, our blokes are capable of two-hour-long full-body orgasms. Great, just when I’d managed to knock sex down to a convenient 20 minutes, someone had to go and tell the fellas that they’re up for marathon moaning-and-groaning sessions.

I have a new mantra for myself this year, and that is to keep an open mind. It’s not something that’s easy to do when you’re a sharp-tongued, hard-edged cynical bitch. I’m not a tantric person. It’s not that I don’t have an open loving heart, I do. It’s just that I have a life. A very busy, very, very full one.

I’m at a presentation, listening to people talk about these extended lovemaking sessions, thinking, what kind of life does that person have? Do they have any commitments other than pleasure? Do they wake up and think I’ll have a coffee, meditate, and then play with my genitals for a few hours?

You see, I’d be well up for hours of lovemaking but the children want dinner. And then the baby wakes up every two hours (which is a bit inconvenient if you’re midway through a full-body orgasm). Someone will have a headache or period pains and require a hot-water bottle which will involve me in getting up and boiling the kettle. The baby will wet the bed. There will be at least one other child who is not mine sleeping over. None of the doors lock. The phone rings constantly.

Sex must be had like field mice, quickly, and in a rapid panic, lest we creepy old people be discovered copulating by the young and beautiful who suddenly cry out ‘oh my god you are so disgusting’. It’s hard to reach a tantric peak when the spectators start chanting ‘Gross Gross Gross’.

I don’t even know what a full-body orgasm is. I call it the FBO. Does that mean even your toes reach a climactic peak? Your teeth? Your hair? Your elbow? And why does it have to go for so long? What if there’s some sort of emergency and you need to be fully present, like the dog’s been run over and you need to get to the vet? Do you just sit there in the surgery, moaning in ecstasy, clutching your mangled pooch? That’s going to send a lot of unwanted messages.

Why are people who have full-body orgasms, or claim to, so often such bad dressers? Is loose clothing a prerequisite for sensual arousal? I suppose when your heart’s open and you’re well connected you’re not worrying about your shoes. Although I have been known to crack out an FBO over a good pair of stilettos.

I understand the heart connection. I think that’s intimacy, but why can we only connect with our hearts with deep, creepy, starey-eye sex? ‘Look at me, be present.’ Really, can’t I just turn the light off and think about someone else? And then you can do the same and then we can tell each other and we can both connect through our deviousness? Sometimes it all just gets so bloody earnest it feels a bit dishonest.

One person talked about climaxing by just looking someone in the eyes. Wow. I’ve seen that done in a club in Sydney when I went to the toilet, but I think there was someone behind them with a large vibrating object. I have many questions, as I find the great orgasm audit fascinating. I recently discovered quite by accident in a bizarre vacuuming accident that I am multi-orgasmic too. But not in the way you expect. I am multi-tasking orgasmic. I have conquered the ability to reach orgasm while buttering toast, taking phone calls and standing in post office queues. It’s the ultimate solution for the sexual adventurer who’s a bit time poor.

Keep your eye out for forthcoming workshops. I’m taking a less loving, more brutalising approach. Turn the whole lovey-dovey thing on its head. I’ve even got a name for it: Root Camp.