This month, our colum­nist goes in search of a new beauty cli­max

ELLE (UK) - - Contents -

Our colum­nist pon­ders the ex­is­tence of an or­gas­mic fa­cial

HELP! I’VE LOST MY GLOW! Hung-over, no sleep and too much vodka is what my early-morn­ing face sug­gests these days. I look shat­tered, and yet the only liq­uid to pass my lips last night was a pep­per­mint tea. Slathered in Sis­ley’s brand new anti-age­ing eye cream (it’s the bomb, btw) and in bed by 10pm? The old Made­moi­selle would be rolling her eyes and draw­ing squares in the air.

‘I feel like crap, I’ve lost my glow,’ I tell a girl­friend over din­ner. ‘Want to find it?’ she asks, lean­ing closer. ‘Want to re­con­nect with your cli­toris?’ ‘Err, what?’ ‘Or­gas­mic Med­i­ta­tion. I could stroke your clit for 15 min­utes, or you could get HIG to do it, or you could see Naomi, my teacher; she’s very nice.’ I choke on a cour­gette and some­one calls an am­bu­lance.

No prude, I call Naomi Cam­bridge to dis­cover more. Or­gas­mic Med­i­ta­tion (OM) is when ‘women con­nect to their power and mag­netism through plea­sure’, she tells me. OM, a 15-minute ‘part­nered prac­tice’, com­bines med­i­ta­tion with the ‘elec­tric­ity of a pro­longed or­gasm state’ – with­out ac­tu­ally cli­max­ing, I has­ten to add (v im­por­tant to note in a group sce­nario, I imag­ine). Cam­bridge reck­ons her daily Or­gas­mic Med­i­ta­tion con­nects her to an ‘in­ner ra­di­ance’, which es­sen­tially has noth­ing to do with what she looks like – it’s how it makes her feel. Be­ing in an or­gas­mic state re­leases oxy­tocin, the ‘love’ hor­mone that makes us happy, which may ex­plain why my friend looked so glowy with­out the as­sis­tance of strobe make-up the other night. Cam­bridge talks me through a 12step process, but I lose track around step two: ‘make a nest and spread your legs’. I imag­ine HIG mas­sag­ing my clit be­fore the school run – will there be time to iron the kids’ shirts? I hang up and stare at my crotch. Could daily Or­gas­mic Med­i­ta­tion prac­tice re­ally lead to a life­time of hap­pi­ness, ful­fil­ment – and glow­ing skin?

Cam­bridge’s de­scrip­tion of her in­ner glow gets me think­ing: we’re all go­ing to end up in an old peo­ple’s home wear­ing our din­ner down our front, so how do we get from ‘peak glow’ – in my case, 2008, a year of thigh-high boots, musky per­fume, mussedup hair and mul­ti­ple or­gasms, juicier than an over-ripe melon, I’ve never looked bet­ter – to, well, The End? Sex boots and hear­ing aids all the way, eh? I look less Ri­hanna more Widow Twankey in thigh-high boots these days. It’s time for plan B.

If the key to my in­ner glow lies within my pants, I’m ly­ing on a bed in a small room on the fourth floor of a build­ing on Wim­pole Street in the hope of find­ing my outer glow. I’m in the right place: Dr Prager is well versed in re­ju­ve­na­tion, and I’m about to have the fa­cial ac­tresses have be­fore brav­ing the red car­pet. A woman with a calm­ing voice smoth­ers my face in Sk­inceu­ti­cals cleanser be­fore giv­ing my face a much-needed vi­ta­min C peel. ‘When was your last fa­cial?’, she enquires. ‘Seven years ago,’ I re­ply. Tum­ble­weed whis­tles past the couch, as an ul­tra­sound tick­les my face. Nippy lit­tle shocks run up and down my cheeks. My skin is treated to a cock­tail of vi­ta­mins and botan­i­cals, which makes a nice change from vodka. Then lash­ings of serum is mas­saged into my dry skin for what feels like for­ever. Af­ter an hour, I look like a new woman – lines are soft­ened, tired eyes gone, even my cheeks feel plumper.

‘Time for a lit­tle light air-brush­ing, per­haps?’ quips Dr Prager, in a gen­tle Ger­man ac­cent. He takes a 3D snap of my face. I look like an an­cient Greek bust, an­cient be­ing the op­er­a­tive word. ‘The face is all about shad­ows and re­flec­tions,’ says Prager, be­fore fill­ing my un­der-eye area with ‘ex­tremely light filler’. He hands me a mir­ror. It’s not quite 2008 march­ing through Soho in sky-high boots, but the dif­fer­ence is noth­ing short of or­gas­mic. I won­der whether HIG will no­tice. The fol­low­ing morn­ing, my boyfriend stares at me. *Long pause* ‘So that pile of blan­kets in the cor­ner of the bed­room?’ he fi­nally pipes up, be­tween mouth­fuls of Bran Flakes. ‘Oh, dar­ling, that’s just our Or­gas­mic Med­i­ta­tion nest.’ ‘Come again?’ Dr Prager’s Il­lu­mi­na­tor Fa­cial costs £295; fillers start at £895 (dr­michael­ Naomi Cam­bridge’s OM costs £480 for three pri­vate in­struc­tional ses­sions, or £199 for a one-day class (naomi­cam­

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