So. Did you guys read yesterday's "Styles" section story on the orgasmic-meditation cult in San Francisco? We did, and we're still not over it. There we were, having a nice Sunday afternoon. We innocently opened the paper with the expectation of reading a story about how rich people are coping with the recession, and instead we came face to face with this:

He invited her to lie down unclothed, set a timer and, while stroking her, proceeded to narrate in tender detail the beauty he saw, the colors that went from coral, to deep rose, to pearlescent pink. “I just broke open, and the feeling was pure and clean,” Ms. Daedone said.

Wait.

Did the Times just describe that woman's vagina to us? Let's read that again just to make sure.

He invited her to lie down unclothed, set a timer and, while stroking her, proceeded to narrate in tender detail the beauty he saw, the colors that went from coral, to deep rose, to pearlescent pink.

Yes. Yes they did. We think the most jarring thing about the story is that although the subject matter is so totally out of character for the Times, it's still written like the Times, like the part where the writers describe one of the cult members post-orgasm as "emanat[ing] radiance worthy of a Caravaggio." This is roughly equivalent, we imagine, to your grandmother suddenly pausing in the middle of extolling the virtues of All-Bran Extra Fiber to describe an orgasm she's had in great detail. We feel violated.

The Pleasure Principle [NYT]