O-faced.

Northwestern is chock-full of talented people. Everyone seems to have their own thing going for them – a kind of calling, if you will. Some people are rock-star athletes, or can write circles around your average New York Times journalist, or, you know, add two-digit numbers without the aid of a graphing calculator. I respect that.

I happen to be really good at having orgasms.

I don’t mean that I have a lot of sex. I’m just what they call a highly orgasmic woman: meaning that sometimes when I do a few too many push-ups, or spend a little too long on the elliptical machine, I get that tell-tale throbbing in my loins that tells me I need to excuse myself for a bathroom break. Considering the weight given “The Elusive O” on the covers of trashy women’s magazines, you might think that being able to spontaneously produce the height of bodily pleasure is a nifty little thing to have in my bag of tricks.

I beg to differ.

Case One: Physical fitness testing in elementary school. The poor confused child trying to reach presidential level in flexed-arm hang while not betraying the waves of lustful sensation that are pulsating though her nine-year-old uterus. When I say ‘awk,’ you say ‘ward.’ Awk!

Anybody?

Okay, great.

Case Two: I have a roommate now. While in the old days – that great Golden Age of privacy – waking up to a random orgasm was a pleasant surprise, I’ve come to dread the hormone fluctuations and before-bed beverages that bring on weird, awkward vaginal euphoria caused in no part by naughty dreams or solo action under the sheets. Random orgasms are, like, not even an enjoyable experience anymore.

...Not even fair.

Case Three: Non-sex sexual acts. I had my first kiss relatively late in life, and while I’m happy to report that it did not make me come, for a long time that was a very valid concern. I get off watching romantic comedies sometimes – not in a way that makes me long for a white knight of my own, but in a way that makes me uncomfortable viewing them in the same room as my parents. If Titanic brought me to climax, then who’s to say you couldn’t lean in for a moment with someone, when all of a sudden..."Oh...OH...YES...oh God I’m sorry, you’re just a really good kisser!

Oh, orgasms. We have a love-hate relationship. But one perk of peaking that nobody can deny is that rosy glow that creeps into your cheeks right as the big moment rolls around.



Which brings me to my climax: Nars blush in "Orgasm." Long-hailed as the gold standard in natural flush, "Orgasm" is a peachy-pink shade with just enough shimmer to make you wonder if you might be imagining it. At $25, the price is steep for your average penny-pinching college student - but for those of us who make a herculean effort just to avoid looking sickly in the six-month-long Chicago winter, the PPW ("price per wear," one of my fave shopping concepts) is a low, low one indeed. I've gotten a number of compliments while wearing this blush. Most of which involve me - a redhead - looking tan. So I'll be darned if this little rubber compact hasn't wormed its way into my daily routine.

Granted, the beauty industry can never take a good thing and leave it alone:



So the brains behind Nars recently introduced "Super Orgasm." Brighter color, more imposing gold flecks...my professional opinion? Steer clear. An organic orgasm might be fine for discussion section, but one this, uh, glittery should be left in the bedroom. If you've got the budget to spring for a blush you can only reach for on Saturday nights, I would love to hear your glowing (har, har) review...for now, my orgasms may not be "Super," but they're just peachy for me.