‘Was that real?” Possibly the three words a woman most dreads hearing in bed.
Bad things come in the traditional three-packs: bad luck, such as death in the family, a car crash, relationship disaster; and words like ”I Hate You”.
And a many good things also come in sets of three. Jokes are three-part: question, set-up, punchline. ”I Love You”, three sweet words. Condoms come in threes — unless you stop hoping for more comfortable contraception and bulk-buy.
Orgasms are also of three types.
”Orgasms?” I hear you ask. ”I thought there were two kinds: real and fake. Or two: vaginal, and clitoral.” Wrong. There are three. The Holy Trinity, as I’ve just now nicknamed them to annoy my lapsed Catholic lover.
First, there’s the one some call fake. It’s the first kind I knew. It begins with intense arousal and ends with a sense of satedness (often more his), but afterwards you feel complete.
It’s more performance than absolute satisfaction. More like a dance perfectly executed, but imperfectly passionate. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, it’s a climax. But it’s more like giving up, acknowledging the end, than something I can’t help giving in to. No muscles move, but my mind explodes. It’s really nice.
Afterwards, I feel the urge to run around and talk and thank him. It’s a promise of more to come.
Then, there’s what some call ”clitoral”. Yes, there are good reasons to find the damn thing. And it’s not as hard as men make out.
Who would have thought something so small could cause so much trouble — it’s the Britain of body parts, far tastier, and unlike British cities it’s clean and pretty.
If a woman with post-80s hair had chosen me, I’d never hesitate to bury my troubled head there. What could be less degrading and more an intimate indication of trust (however fleeting) than having someone’s sex in your mouth. Surely, nothing?
Then there’s what some call ”vaginal”. What a yucky word. What a challenging word. A word that had me figuring out how to fake one by the time I was 18.
Ten years later, it happened. I think I tried to stop it, I was so shocked by the unfamiliar feeling. It’s impossible to really remember what it feels like. Harder than feeling cold when you’re fanning yourself to dry the sweat on a summer’s day, or hunger when you’ve eaten too much, or sobriety when you’re wasted.
Perhaps now I know why men like to doze after sex — there’s really nothing to say. Except perhaps ”wow”. Or ”light me a cigarette / pass my drink”, or my personal favourite: ”Oops. I forgot I had a girlfriend and she’ll be home soon. Mind leaving?”
The best word for this best kind is probably ejaculation. Let’s not go into the details, but it does happen. There are websites with pictures out there.
So is that ”it”? The ”really real thing?” That’s such an unromantic question. And I object to it. Quite vocally, at times.
I object because my orgasms are all real. My answer to that awkward question, when it comes, is always ”Yes!”
Orgasm shouldn’t be evaluated by ejaculation, spasms, noise factors or other crude criteria. The more you worry, the less it happens.
Frankly, if more lovers thought of their own cummings more loosely, they’d be better and we wouldn’t be nearly as scared to got to bed with them. Or nearly as likely to really fake it.
Yes, really fake it. The nagging question is different but persistent: Is there a real ”fake” type?
Sure there is. And most men are taken in by it, or pretend to be.
”I can tell,” they say, smirking in bars, while the women they sleep with or would like to lay look away, smiling mirthlessly.
A very good-smelling man once implied that you can detect orgasm with your finger in the erm … other entrance. Incorrect. That’s precisely where we fake it. It’s easier than farting. And we don’t have our clitoris ”up there”, as guys are rumoured to do.
Speaking of ”trying to find things” … you call women complex? Illogical? Ha. We don’t ask much, relatively speaking.
Bringing a woman to orgasm is really incredibly simple. Once she’s genuinely aroused. Getting her there can take one word, or hours of brilliant dialogue dance. But it’s all atmosphere, and concentration, and intent. And awaited surprises. A good orgasm is usually a surprise if it’s female.
But you’ve had them, so you already know that. And it’s a bit like learning to ride a bike, with more interesting bruises and better-smelling sweat. Once you get good you can go quite fast. Look Ma, no hands!
The trick is just to start analysing them less and enjoying them more. All of them. After all, that’s what they happen for, right?