Faking It

“You’re just not a very sexual person.”  My first boyfriend said this to me once.  After three years of us being together.  By this point, I had already cheated on him with a 46 year old bartender who worked with me at this beachside bed and breakfast over the summer.  I was 19; he had a 6 year old son.  I never told my boyfriend and I didn’t feel guilty.  My mom told me it didn’t count as cheating if we didn’t have sex.  We only made out a bunch and I put my tongue on the tip of his penis… then chickened out.

My boyfriend and I were in college and living together, and he had boners 24 hours a day.  There was a time when I enjoyed his sex drive, but after three years with him, it became a chore.  Every day he’d ask if I’d “kiss him” (meaning his cock) and when I couldn’t muster the energy to politely oblige, when I was “too tired” or whatever, he would beat off in the “jerk off rag” he kept under the bed. Sex became more and more unappealing.  Sometimes I felt like a 50s housewife, gritting my teeth and staring at the ceiling until he finished.  When he went down on me, naïve college girl that I was, I would ask if it “tasted bad.”  He would say not if he kept to the outside part and didn’t put his tongue “too deep inside.” 

It hadn’t always been this way.  When we were first together, I couldn’t get enough of him and we would have sex constantly, whenever and wherever we possibly could: in his sportscar parked outside the restaurant where we were headed for dinner, in the women’s locker room at the public pool, in his little sister’s bedroom while the rest of his family watched The Simpsons Movie.  That was before I started faking it.  Not orgasms, mind you.  I didn’t fake those, I simply stopped having them and he stopped caring.  I was faking the fact that I was still in love with him.

I recently found myself in a heated conversation with a couple girlfriends, spurned on by my latest blog posting.  After a lively discussion of orgasms, masturbation, and fantasies, we found ourselves talking about “faking it” (orgasms, that is), and we all lowered our voices.  One friend admitted to faking it fairly frequently.  I asked why.  She smiled sheepishly.

“I don’t know,” she said.

I was surprised by this admission, because I myself never feel the need to fake orgasms.  If I’m not gonna come, I say the words “I’m not going to come,” and that’s that.  I usually know when it’s not happening and I don’t want the guy to bang away all night if I already know he’s wasting his time.  In my experience, most guys are pretty understanding about this.  With one notable exception.  My second boyfriend, the lovely one I’ve mentioned in previous posts.  Yes, he’s my ex and yes we still have sex.  And he absolutely refuses to come if I don’t.  I must have sensed this from the first moment I met him, because the one and only time I can ever remember faking an orgasm was the first night we were together. 

We had literally just met.  We were watching a play and talking through the entire thing, much to the chagrin of the entire cast and audience, I’m sure.  But we just couldn’t help ourselves.  We were enthralled, there was all this amazing chemistry going on, and I’m sure we both couldn’t wait to get the F out of the theatre to somewhere private where we could consummate our lust.  He asked me for a ride home (smooth move), and I gave it to him.  Before I knew it, we were smoking a joint and making out in my car.  And then we were parked in his mother’s garage, making out and getting under each other’s clothing.  When he started lowering the seat down and was headed face-first into my crotch, I was like whoa whoa whoa, why don’t we go inside?  We made it this far.  Reluctantly, he took me into his mother’s apartment and back into what appeared to be a guest bedroom with a sofa-bed that he pulled out.  Did he live there?  At this moment, I wasn’t sure.  Nor did I care.  Things were getting hot and heavy and I was ready to go. 

“Do you have a condom?”

“No.”

Fuck.

“We can do other stuff,” he said, pushing me down on the bed.

He started kissing down my body.  I’m thinking, oh fuck, I definitely have not shaved in at least three months.  This is not good.  I’m also thinking about my first boyfriend’s obvious not-thrilled-ness with going down there.  So I’m nervous.  I don’t have a lot of experience at this moment in time.  I’ve had a couple rebound fucks, but like 3 ½ guys have gone down on me ever, and never to completion, so I’m not holding out much hope. 

“Mmm.  You taste so good.”  He’s slurping away, groaning enthusiastically, apparently just enjoying the heck out of himself.  I actually believe him too.  I start to relax, start to enjoy myself too.  I lay back and allow a couple soft groans to escape.  He comes up for air to hand me a pillow, giving me a cocky wink.

“In case you need to be loud.”

I already know I’m not going to need to be loud.  Because I know there’s no fucking way he’s going to make me come this way.  No matter how good he is (and he’s gooooooood), no matter how much I’m into him and how much I want to, I’m just not comfortable with this, or myself, in this way yet.  So, I fake it.  Don’t get me wrong, we both give it a valiant effort, I’m sure his tongue gets sore, we’re there for awhile, and then I take the pillow, shove it over my face, and build my moans to a satisfying (and convincing) crescendo.   

Why did I do it?  Because I wanted to reward him for working so hard and for being such a good guy, because I was young and naïve and didn’t know how to express myself sexually, and because I knew he would never stop unless I did.

When I was done faking it, he emerged, wiping his mouth and smiling at me. 

“Have you ever come from that before?”

I smiled coyly, shaking my head.  I could see the pride and pleasure in his eyes.  He kissed me.  I pushed him back on the bed.

“Now I wanna do that for you.”

And I went to work.  But it didn’t feel like work, like it always did with my first boyfriend.  I felt really happy giving pleasure to this sweet boy who made me feel delicious.  My first boyfriend was a fan of saying that giving someone an orgasm was a kind of control, like it was a bad thing.  I think this was his big excuse for not doling out his fair share.  God knows I doled out plenty for him, and I didn’t feel that in control.

I had never told my second boyfriend that I faked it that first time we were together.  Because I never have since and I knew it would hurt him, and he took so much pride in giving me my first oral sex-induced orgasm that night.  It doesn’t matter to me but I knew it would matter to him.  I had to tell him recently because I knew I wanted to write this blog and I knew he would read it.  The disappointment in his voice was palpable.  Even now, 5 years later, he feels terrible about that lost orgasm.  Why does he care so much?  I don’t know, because he did give me my first orgasm-via-oral-sex, and he was the guy that taught me I didn’t need to have sex three times in order to come once.  He got me down to a 1-to-1 ratio.  And he made me feel like my vagina was beautiful and delicious.  So, not to be a sappy asshole, but he really is the last person who should feel bad about how he treats the ladies.

And it seems like a lot of girls are faking it a lot more than I am.  I actually am starting tounderstand why guys are so afraid of/intimidated by the female orgasm.  Because it’s fucking tricky!  And it’s different for everyone.  And, in my experience, most guys don’t have the balls to be like “So, can you come from sex alone or do you need oral or what’s the deal?”  And most girls are too timid to be like “I can’t come from sex so you’re gonna have to eat me out for awhile.”  So we all need to man-up here people (side note: why isn’t “woman-up” an expression??).  Actually, let’s make it one.  It’s time to woman-up here people.  And learn to communicate.  Otherwise, we’re destined to constantly be in a battle of the sexes that goes something like this: “He can’t make me come!” versus “Why won't she come?”