There is a fantasy that I have about being a hugely successful public speaker. I want to be like the Master Teachers making it big with their books on spirit. I want to walk toward a podium with a song playing to my stride. I see the crowd. I see the stage, and when I get to the podium, hmmm. I’m working that part out slowly.
I’d like to be provocative. That fantasy goes like this:
I stare down at some notes on the podium and take a sip of water that has been left for me. The welcoming applause falls to silence and anticipation. The first words out of my mouth are, “How many of you masturbate? Anybody?”
I’d look around at the shocked crowd, and I’d pull people out a bit. Oh look, the President of that art college. “Paula? No? Hey, everyone, there’s the CEO of Hallmark Productions in town for the garden tours! Hey, Sandy! You? No. Where is my mother? She was supposed to be here today.”
I look all around the room to no avail.
“I’m here to talk about celebrating wholeness, and more specifically the whole woman. Our to-do lists are more interesting than you think. Masturbation was the start of my spiritual aperture widening substantially. It was how I came to understand my body’s energy and its pattern of movement. I got so good at it that Oprah made me sign a contract not to do it while driving. It wasn’t that she thought I was going to cause an accident; it was that I kept screaming her name. In my defense, I said that Gayle made me do it. I had to sign the contract nevertheless.”