Hey fella, 'sup?
I know, it’s been a while. We haven’t had any contact in ages, but you’ve been on my mind lately. See, I’m with a new guy and, to put it bluntly, I’m getting it good these days. We’re all adults here, and I may not have the highest body count on the block, but it’s also been a while since I could wear white and fully embody the traditional Christian implications therein, so I’m gonna just come out with it: When you and I had sex, I faked orgasms with you, and all this time later I’m still thinking about it.
Listen. Every gal’s ladybits are different and so are the orgasms that go with them. Many women are frequent fakers and prefer to handle things themselves. Some are fine without a climax. Personally, I don’t always entertain company in my undercarriage, but when I do, I generally get off. With all of the messiness in the world and personal sludge I’ve slogged through, I’m grateful to have built a bridge and gotten over certain barriers to enjoying really rock 'em, sock 'em bedroom activities.
That said, you should know that you were not my first fake. I can recall a time long ago and far away when the deed was just not going well and of all the endeavors to fall short in, boot knockery is not the one. I was trying to make a relationship work that clearly wasn’t, in or out of the sheets, and on more than a few occasions whilst doing the lukewarm semi-nasty, my mind wandered to all of the many things I could have been doing to make better use of that time.
So I faked it then like I faked it every time with you. Hey buddy, shit happens. Parts chafe and noises are made and sometimes we just won’t be crossing that finish line together. Or at all. But with you, I did want to try. You certainly looked like you were trying, and I guess I wanted to comfort you and also go to sleep sooner rather than later. You recall how important it is to me to get a full night’s sleep when nothing exciting or more pressing is keeping me up.
I was initially inclined to think of my first faked orgasm with you as an act of charity; but as you know I regularly work in actual charity, serving meals at the homeless shelter, so I don't want to sully that word with any sort of association with you and your . . . efforts.
Besides, how charitable is it to tell a lie? Particularly one that will undoubtedly come back to unsatisfyingly bite me in the ass? No, the better choice would probably have been honesty, in the moment. But . . . yikes.
The thing is, there’s no participation medal for sex. There’s no way to look up (or down, or back over your shoulder) and just say, “Hey, you totally participated. Good job doing that but not excelling in any way.” Consensual adult banging can be such a joy that, when it isn’t, I think many of us just want to leave the building immediately, much less give constructive criticism and refer to a pie chart of activities attempted versus enjoyment experienced.
But you’re still on my mind because part of me thinks I should have done exactly that. We didn’t have a future together, but you’re a nice enough guy and your certainty that you had, in fact, rocked my world is both a testament to my acting skills and also tells me that perhaps the previous gal below you had her SAG card as well.
So many of my sisters struggle with finding their orgasm that it feels like a crime to perform a pretend one. Truly climaxing is a heavenly experience, and now that I’m having my back blown out on the regular, I look back on that handful of times with you in sadness.
Had I been invested enough, I might have told you a few things about pressure and tempo. I’m no professional sexpert, but there are elements of anatomy and friction that I think you could stand to understand better.
I just honestly didn’t feel like that was the time to say any of those things, but is there ever a good time? I suppose I would have found the words and made the time if things were moving in a positive direction outside the bedroom, but wowza, they really were not at all.
In hindsight, I should have. You are how bad sex keeps happening, and at some point someone has to break the cycle. I didn’t sign up for that position, but perhaps I should have taken the bull by the horns?
And speaking of positions and bulls . . . you’re not very well-endowed, which is all the more reason why you could really benefit from a coaching of some kind or another. I don’t have a penis myself, and although society routinely beats women up for every element of our looks, I know that dudes face loads of size issues, so I don’t want you to feel bad. But it’s a factor.
Having a large penis by no means guarantees that a man will be routinely rocking worlds, but for those working with basic equipment, it’s extra important to look into all of the many other tricks of the trade.
The long, deep stroke may never be your thing, but BooBoo, there’s so much you can do to better rock the world of the next hitter up at bat. But for that to happen, we all need to be honest, which I was not, and for that I apologize.
I remember watching the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda stops faking it and confronts a guy in bed, immediately after sex (!), saying that she had previously faked her orgasms with him and it was time to get real and address the problem. It was slightly less awful to watch than Game of Thrones' Red Wedding. Good ol’ Miranda, always there with the uncomfortable truth. Sadly, that episode ended with her faking it again when her coaching didn’t take, but at least she gave it the old college try.
The truth can be uncomfortable, yes. But so was that thing you tried at that odd angle that really just hurt my hipbone. Sexual gratification can come in so many different ways for many people; generally though, I do like to come.
An old Virginia Slims ad told me that we ladies have come a long way, and as such, many of us take our orgasms into our own hands, which still would have required me to at least politely ask that you get out of the way, which is simply not something I was going to do.
Again, I’m sorry.
I hope that perhaps you’ve seen a video or had a conversation with a braver soul than myself that made you open your eyes. Your wackness betwixt the sheets is not entirely my fault, but my phony baloney orgasm is.
If more of us worried less about making guys feel bad then maybe we could feel good more often. I hope you encounter or have already encountered a Miranda who could diplomatically break it down for you in a way that I could not. I just wanted to get some sleep.