I’ve Never Had an Orgasm and I’m the Only Person That Doesn’t Care

I've considered a tattoo that reads, "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here" across my lower abdomen to manage expectations but I like to think of myself as more subtle than that.

Mar 19, 2013 at 2:00pm | Leave a comment

 
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This is me not getting what the big deal is.

 
While there were many good reasons for me to stop caring about achieving my first orgasm, it was mostly that I wanted my co-workers to stop thinking that I was dying.
 
You see, I was spending countless afternoons seeing specialists, sex therapists, regular therapists, and gynecologists in a futile attempt to find out what was wrong with me. More than one co-worker has asked if everything was all right. And since I don't really work in the kind of environment where I can say, "Oh, I'm fine, I just think my clit is busted," I had to keep it mysterious when I'd slip away for a long lunch. 
 
Not tmention I was dropping 50-dollar co-pays every other week to get advice that I could have found on Yahoo! Answers. Relax. Don't focus too hard on achieving orgasm. Get to know what your body likes. Straddle the bathtub faucet. Get a vibrator. Be gentle. Be rough.  
 
I feel like I’ve checked off every possible suggestion, tip, and trick but still haven't climaxed. Not once. Not alone. Not with others. Not with men. Not with women. Not from the back. Not from the front. Not with people I’m deeply in love with. Not with sexy strangers. Never. Never ever. And frankly, I just don't care anymore. 
 
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The usual suspects.

 
I don't want to confuse not caring about having orgasms with giving up on the prospect. I give it my all in the bedroom, whether I'm flying solo or with a partner. I'm not one to spread out like a defeated starfish and let my mind wander off to thoughts about what's on the DVR and if the cat's been fed while some poor sap thrusts away.
 
I am fully present and fully enjoying my sexual encounters. I love intimacy, foreplay, touch, stimulation, and penetration. All of these are enough for me. But there are enough people in my life that think this is a signal that I’m insufficiently empowered that I’m afraid my Third Wave card is going to be revoked any day now. 
 
Since my teen years, when my friends and I jumped on the masturbation bandwagon, I was the lone holdout when it came to coming. At 19, my girlfriends bought me my first vibrator and called the next day for what they hoped would be a full report on me finally having my mind blown.
 
"It didn't happen," I said.
 
I could hear the disappointment in their silence. Were you just putting it on the outside? Maybe you should try it on the inside. Did you try it with your underwear on, that can help! I know that their encouragement was meant to be helpful but it mostly made me feel more defective.  
 
I turned to desperate measures. I once nearly burned my clit off trying the removable showerhead by accidentally changing the temperature instead of the water pressure. I considered the possibility that maybe I was a secret size queen and my foolish 5'2'' ass banged a 6'8'' guy. I limped for days.  
 
In a moment of weakness and possible psychosis, I masturbated with Barbie feet.  All this to no avail. It was clear I needed professional help.
 
To rule out physiological causes, I went to a gynecologist. As it turned out, all my parts were in place. She went through the standard litany of questions about whether I found sex "dirty", how I masturbated, if I had oral sex, etc. She seemed unconvinced that I was truly comfortable about sex and my own sexuality which hurt a lot, considering how much trust there needs to be in the sacred gyno/lady relationship.  
 
She gave me the ole "Well, just keep trying!" pep talk and I was on my way…to therapy.  
 
For a professional who had likely seen people in much greater mental anguish than me, this guy had really not mastered his psychiatrist poker face. Incredulous at the idea that I couldn't come from masturbation, he was visibly appalled.  He too went through the litany of obvious questions, including asking me if I knew what my clitoris was.
 
I informed him that I had completed middle school and had seen a handful of R-rated movies so yes, the two of us were acquainted. He tried to convince me that there was some shame about sexuality in my upbringing that I wasn't recognizing and needed to overcome. And while I'm the first person to petulantly blame my parents for my various neuroses, they were remarkably okay about sex from my earliest memory so this really isn't on them.  
 
Toward the end of a crumbling relationship, I had another therapist suggest that my failure to have orgasms was a likely cause of our relationship problems, bruising the male ego and all. Which brings me to the men. 
 
Oh, the poor, dear, fragile men. I've considered a tattoo that reads, "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here" across my lower abdomen to manage their expectations but I like to think of myself as more subtle than that. My partners generally fall into two different categories when I tell them.
 
The first camp is all, "Cool! A soft and reasonably pretty semen receptacle!" These smooth operators make minimal effort, tend to stay in one boring position, and last less than the length of a Magnetic Fields song. And while the upshot of my non-existent orgasms is that I can consider a one-minute man a flattering disappointment, that kind of laziness and disregard for my enjoyment is unacceptable. 
 
The second type of guy is well-meaning but in some ways even worse. He is the gentleman caller that claims, "I'm sure I could make you come." Oh bless my lucky stars, a Clitoris Wizard has found his way into my bed! Please good sir, do your magic!  
 
Ugh. If it isn't evident already, I'm not exactly a Rules gal, grinning coyly through half a dozen dates before getting down. I'll be on the express train to Poundtown, thanks.  So these are guys that barely know me, much less the inner workings of my lady business.  
 
While these men may feel like they're doing me a tremendous favor in their willingness to make an effort, what they are really saying is, "You may have lived in that body of yours for 27 years, but I am sure that I know my way around it better than you do!"
 
And while I'll be as happy as a clam if they do eventually make me come, I want sex to be about the mutual enjoyment of each other's bodies without the man being preoccupied with some macho conquest that is more about his ego than my pleasure. 
 
And look, I understand that this can be a blow to a man's self-esteem. If I don't make a guy climax, I’m disappointed too.  But a quick lesson in Anatomy 101 and the talk about How Boys and Girls Are Different should reveal that I am not some kind of defective ice queen but a woman who just happens not to reach climax during sexual stimulation.  
 
I love all of the feelings associated with good sex, I just don't know what one of those particular feelings is. And sure, I may be missing out but you know, Allegory of the Cave!  
 
So finally, I've stopped trying to have orgasms for anyone but myself. I look forward to the possibility but don't hold my breath for it (and not just because I've heard that that will inhibit it).
 
I’m done traumatizing my childhood toys and paying people to look at me like I have two heads and no G-spot. I am a fully functional sexual being and demand to be treated like one. I’m not listening to any more theories or lectures on how if I was just a little more liberated, a little more adventurous, a little more open, a little more in love, it would just happen.
 
Frankly, these talks are boring and ultimately, still anti-climactic.