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Might she have a particular set of unrealized desires, a sexual identity she hadn’t yet discovered? She bought a ticket to San Francisco in order to report on the sexual subcultures she had reason to believe she would find there.

(Parts of “Future Sex” first appeared in and Matter.) “They believed in intentional communities that could successfully disrupt the monogamous heterosexual tradition,” she writes, with a touch of the East Coaster’s skepticism toward the Bay Area’s positive-thinking citizens.

With a partner, a woman sets up a “nest” of pillows and blankets on the floor, then lies on it, naked from the waist down.

Her clothed counterpart sits on a cushion to her right, puts on a pair of latex gloves, applies lube to a finger, and, after asking for permission to touch her and “poetically” describing her vulva, proceeds to stroke her clitoris.

Better, she thought, to fall in love with one person and have sex with him for the foreseeable future. Maybe the problem had to do with a failure of imagination.

Sexual freedom can be put to more interesting uses than sleeping with your friends.

Going around a circle, participants describe their “red hot desire”; one after another, they agree to sit in the “hot seat” and answer questions posed to them by their fellows, who are instructed to limit all responses to “thank you.” Eye contact is encouraged.

The orgasmic-meditation “practice”—a word, Witt notes, meant to signal “an ongoing, daily ritual in which one gained incremental expertise and wisdom over time”—is so simple that you might wonder why anyone would pay the hundred and forty-nine dollars it now costs to be certified to engage in it, never mind the twelve thousand that it costs to become a One Taste coach.

Influenced by that decade’s liberties, and chastened by its excesses, they encouraged her to think of youthful sexual experimentation as a healthy prelude to a coupled life. For young, straight, well-educated American women, sleeping around for pleasure and experience has become a social convention, the way dancing the cotillion at a débutante ball once was. Following her visit to the clinic, she fantasized about giving herself over to “the project of wifeliness,” as she saw many of her peers doing, indulging in the sort of triumphal social-media posts—engagement photos, wedding photos, baby photos—that advertise the twenty-first-century life cycle of young couples.