Why I Stopped Faking Orgasms

It's 2013. Girls, let's stop faking orgasms and start talking about what we need to get off...
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Excuse the ratchet with me in the title but there is a serious matter going on and I just wanted to chop it up real quick.


The reasons are plentiful, I’m sure and I speak from experience when I say that my main reason for doing so was because, I used to assume, that correcting a man in bed, would surely ruin his self esteem and the next day, the only inflated shit would be my swollen pancakes.

Not wanting to hurt dudes feelings, I would wait until he was asleep to then finish myself off. Between dudes beating labia’s as if they are punching bags or entirely missing the clitoris all together, I resigned myself to a life of post coital masturbation, a dirty little secret, that would require me to climax in silence between his heaving snores.

Moving into my current relationship, I made a vow to myself to never lie about the state of my sex life, expectations or post fuck evaluations. Sex for the first time was like something out of a Jerome Dickey novel; Maxwell was wailing, headboard was swaying and I kept waiting for my penetrative orgasm. See, despite all the rumors, I still had no evidence to support its existence. I had been a ‘touch mi button’ gyal for a very long time, but I wanted to experience the waves of brilliance that seemed to be undulating in the wombs of women, worldwide.

I took it, and then gave it. Legs in the air, near my ears, on my knees, on his knees, him on one knee, planking, twisting and turning, until the inevitable happened. I had a great time, not one to turn down a cardiovascular activity, it was easily some of the best sex I’d ever had. But was I satisfied? No.

Pulling the duvet up to my chin, I would wait until he’s asleep, I told myself. It was early days and even though I cajoled myself into believing that my sexual honesty would be different, I decided that it could wait until later. I proceeded to watch him bask in the afterglow of his accomplishment and I busied myself with checking Twitter.


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But he had other ideas.

‘Have you cum?’ His gravel tone, post orgasmic voice demanded truth.

I held my breath. While doing so, I weighed up the pros and cons. I liked this guy, I mean, really liked this guy. Did I be honest and let him know that I’m not really a ram it up inna her pump um, kinda gyal? Or did I just…lie?

‘Don’t worry about me I’m fine.’

Even in the pitch dark, like two shooting stars, his eyes found mine.

Before I could verbally protest, he was gently pushing my legs apart. Fingers moved like ballet dancers, light but purposeful, with full knowledge of their subject, they took advantage of the lack of pubic hair. Where I had before had to make my body like a contour artist, he knew exactly where the holy rail was placed. My phone slipped out of my hand, as I pressed my body further into the mattress and legs further apart….


There is something to be said for having sex with a giving man. And I mean truly giving. As I let my fears of being honest about what my body needed, slip away I was able to experience what can only be described as bliss. This kind of communication has without doubt changed my entire sex life. Now I feel less like a supporting act and more like the lead. And of course I enjoy playing my role, especially when I have lines such as;

‘There is my clit, touch it.’

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