There was nothing wrong with her. She was not to blame. She was the apotheosis of lust, comprising every element of cisgendered sex from the grrrl-next-door to the bust-down. I wanted her. I needed her. It’s just that this time — this one time — I couldn’t orgasm. Yes, I loved sex, and yes, I loved her, but my body wasn’t cooperating. It’s just wasn’t going to happen that night. It had nothing to do with how I felt about her. She had no reason to feel inadequate.
I repeated the sentiments above to her for two hours. I did it while naked, sweaty, and lying next to her existential crisis. Young and dumb, I believed honesty was the easiest policy. I underestimated the alacrity with which my partner would adopt my malfunction as her own. To her, a man’s orgasm was a simple machine. To not successfully “operate” such a thing felt like the cruelest sleight to her femininity. Obviously, this was not the truth. Unfortunately, the truth rarely has a place with young lovers. I vowed to never repeat such an ordeal. But to keep that promise, I knew sometimes I’d have to fake it. Here’s what I did… Keep reading »