Loehmann’s, a discount fashion retailer once at the corner of Sutter and Kearny Streets, sold off-rack Calvin Klein and Michael Kors to thrifty Financial District suits. When One Taste opened their pop-up shop, they jury-rigged the former tennants’ sign to read “Women’s Store,” wallpapered the walls with completed “Orgasm is _____________” (addictive, ¡bueno!, hard with two little kids), and just like that, downtown San Francisco had its first dedicated orgasm store.

“I have never met a woman who is not, right now, at this moment, orgasmic,” Nicole Daedone writes in the introduction to her store’s only tangible product: Slow Sex: The Art and Craft of Female Orgasm.

The sales clerk who greeted me on a recent Friday jumped straight to testimonial: “They’re longer, stronger, and more powerful,” she gushed, as if discussing, say, leaf blowers. Then she flipped the book to an illustration of the basic Orgasmic Meditation position that was equal parts karma sutra and soccer stretch.  “See?” she exclaimed.

The store was hosting artist Marco Cochrane. Marco was live-sculpting his fiancé. She was a pixie, lithe model wearing a sports bra and spandex bottoms, hopping and tip-toe-dancing to a soundtrack of Prince and Michael Jackson. From time to time, Marco would tap her shoulder and she would find her pose: right foot first, hips thrust, chest arched, chin forward, fingers rooted towards the floor.

Though he had a crowd of 50 watching him work, Marco stayed quiet, unless he was screaming. Every ten or fifteen minutes, he’d holler something indecipherable. A leopard-printed matron with furry boots would shout in ascension and soon everyone was whooping and clapping for reasons I could never understand.

Meanwhile, the sales associate explained the difference between slow sex and regular sex. “Slow sex is meditative, thoughtful, aware,” she said. “But there’s overlap. I mean, come on, someone’s rubbing your clitoris.” I asked in passing if there was a male equivalent to the exercises. “Alright,” she sighed as she flipped to the appendix, “I’ll show you a picture of a penis if that’s what you want.”

Marco finished at 9:30 after several ten-minute delays. “Two hours!” he screamed. “Fuck yeah!” The crowd erupted into applause and whoops.  “I did this—this!—in two hours!” The crowd continued clapping.

“What does it mean?” Leopard Print shouted.

Marco swept his hand along the calf of his work. “Women, this is where your power is,” he explained. “We men love this shit right here.”

“What about a mouth?” cried his fiancé. “I want a mouth!”

Marco began chiseling a mouth. “Women, when we men hear you talk, we should listen. Because sometimes all it sounds like to us is bitching and nagging. But really what you’re saying is to savor each moment. That we should relax—that we shoud, you know, slow things down.”