The Organic Orgasm

The Organic Orgasm

Written by Khira Moore

Art by Lucy Latorre

I wish I could write about something more interesting, but I always come back to the subject of love.

I was raised in the golden age of romance. It started with an early obsession of sappy Wattpad originals and turned into to a slightly healthier obsession of relationship psychology and Emily Henry. I found a passion in sharing love stories with the world, trickling down the publishing pipeline from editorial to marketing. Recently, I created a Substack, sharing personal philosophy and literary recommendations under the alias, “Be Moore Romantic.”

Despite this, I find myself disillusioned with my generation’s take on modern romance. Four years ago, I wrote a personal essay coined with the same title: “The Organic Orgasm.” It dissected the Gen Z phenomenon of dating app culture from the perspective of a college freshman in a city of sexually confused, baby-adults experiencing their first taste of freedom. In my discoveries, I noted how, in the age of rapid consumerism, we’ve redesigned the barriers of human interaction from face-to-face to face-to-screen.

Yet, so many people flock to dating apps in hopes of finding a connection, even if it’s just for the night. The Tinder game has become so normalized in Gen Z culture that it’s considered my closest peers’ favorite pastime.

It goes something like this: a group of friends sit in a circle, and one friend has their Tinder open. The group collectively decides whether they should swipe left or right based on nothing but physical attractiveness and age. The triviality of the game is revealed when you realize how shallow the concept of the dating app truly is. When a person is reduced to physical appearance, the possibility of a genuine connection is significantly lowered—you’re not venturing beyond surface-level attraction.

I’m not here to preach the golden prophecy or shove voluntary abstinence down your throat. I know that my methods for finding love are unconventional in the digital age. The golden prophecy isn’t for everybody. While my friends are swiping to their hearts content and gallivanting off to Esplanade dates and happily ever afters, I’ve found comfort in being the friend waiting at home with a tub of cookies and cream ice cream. When the night of thrills ends with an empty spot in their bed, and an abrupt ghosting from a 5-foot-10-inch finance guy, I’m ready and waiting with tissues and a bottle of wine.

My problem with dating apps arises when I witness so many charming, educated, and amazing individuals closing themself off from finding that in-person connection in favor of a dating app because it’s easier.

The players of this digital game rely on dopamine hits. They attribute their self-worth to how many swipes they can get on a photograph showing off a scandalous slip of their midriff. It’s exhilarating, sharing screenshots of new matches to that three-person group chat and giggling over a funny prompt.

It’s fun. It’s easy. Yet, each time, my friends find themselves questioning their self-worth while clutching a voiceless screen and waiting for a shirtless gym pic to text them back. All before the inevitable crash.

Psychologists conduct decades-long studies asking questions a little trickier than what can be found through human biology: how to find love; how to secure it; how to nourish it. Self-help books, with punchy titles and subpar movie adaptations, promise with a 10-step how-to guide that every great love story is just around the corner. No matter how much bell hooks I read or how many social media rabbit holes I follow, I can’t figure it out. I can’t figure out how to define a love that’s in person, not in the movies or imaginary worlds I try to escape through. But for the fellow hopeless romantics, I can try.

When I think about that four-letter word—love—I always think about fall. Snuggled under cozy blankets, sipping on the last dredges of apple cider, letting the sweet juice travel down my throat and settle in my stomach. The smell of freshly-baked pastries wafting through café doors, promising a new experience in the form of a flaky delight.

It’s movie nights, heads bent, darting eyes, and longing. Late-night talks and insecurities bleeding out of every previously closed pore. It’s belly-aching laughter and a gut curdling scream of devotion, of anguish. Sans agony. It’s humming love songs under my breath and a hand outstretched to pull you back down to bed. It’s romanticizing the look of yearning and listening to “I’ve Seen It” by Olivia Dean on repeat. It’s not a perfect story, but it’ll be the best damn thing you ever dreamt.

Love is anxious lovers huddled for warmth amid the calming storm, holding tight until winter tears them apart. And if you’re lucky enough to survive through the blistering cold and holiday music playing on an ear-bleeding loop, you might luck out and get a kiss when the clock strikes midnight.

Love, in its messiest, most devastating form, is the reward and consequence of the search for human connection. Love is cradling a shaking fist in your hand and caressing it, hoping that they won’t strike back. I’m searching for a love that can’t be bought, sold, or bartered. It can’t be liked, hearted, or clicked.

The organic orgasm is a treacherous pursuit. I can’t promise meet-cutes, third-act breakups, and cookie-cutter happily ever afters. I can’t romanticize loneliness, cold mornings, and evening dread.

To spend your life waiting for something that may never come is terrifying. But imagine the day when desire blooms scarlet red across your cheeks and a hand finds yours in a crowd and you find yourself falling headfirst for a wide-toothed grin, too beautiful for man’s words to describe. For a single touch, a single glance, a single moment of genuine connection, I’d admit defeat. I’d throw in my towel, wave goodbye to the cynics, and embrace love with a glorious conviction.

Some people call me crazy, and I might be a fool. But I’d rather risk it all than spend a lifetime wondering what could’ve, should’ve, would’ve been.

I’ll spend a lifetime howling at the moon and waiting for the last rays of sunshine to call me home. I’m afraid, but I’d rather do it scared than sing odes to a ghost.

Even after it’s over and I’ve screamed to the heavens and cried all my tears, I’ll look back on my great loves with fond memories.

I’ll spend my life searching for that beauty—the kind of love that you can’t find on a dating app.