Hello, My Beauties,
No Fake Orgasms. That’s my #MotivationMonday message. “Fake it ’till you make it” may work for a new job, but when it comes to life between the sheets (or on the couch, or in a field….) it’s crap advice.
“Everyone has faked an orgasm at some point in time,” or so the saying goes. The idea has floated about in the ether for decades, centuries, millennia.
And it’s usually applied to those of us with a vulva and vagina. Even today, it’s not hard to find examples of the prioritization of men’s sexual pleasure and the dismissal (if not flat-out demonization) of women’s.
Yeah. Fuck that nonsense.
It makes me nauseous to think of how much of my own pleasure I abdicated in my early sexual experiences. I knew what an orgasm felt like and the basics of making it happen.
Still, orgasming with a partner was challenging, especially when my partner (or partners) had a penis. At least folks with a clitoris had a better understanding of how to find the damn thing.
Of course, there were other factors at play.
Before I engaged in recovery and reclaiming my sexuality and sexual expression, I had no language for my sexual pleasure. I learned early that my enjoyment of sex was subordinate.
I’m not saying every partner I had was a shitlord.
Some people were completely unaware of the scripts running in the background of our encounters. A lot of times, I fucked with a mission, and the goal was self-harm. Each sexual experience reinforced the idea that I was nothing.
It took time to untangle those old beliefs and embrace my sexuality and sexual expression.
Context and Consent Matter. It took a long time to realize I didn’t crave abuse because I wanted to be bound and edged until I wept or spanked with a loving hand. Moreover, fantasies of dominating someone with sweet words that made them squirm and discipline that made them ache didn’t equate to the internalization of my abusers.
Embracing myself helped me learn to embrace and prioritize my orgasms. The relief that accompanied sexual fulfillment was absolute. It was a paradigm-shifting experience.
I had always thought that my desires were depraved remnants of pain left by my abusers, even though they bore no resemblance to what I endured.
Understanding my fantasies freed my orgasms.
They weren’t something to be ashamed of any longer. It also gave me the language to communicate my needs to my lover (by this point, I’d met Mr. Crispy, the love of my life).
I’ve taken a long way around to say this: your orgasms matter.
So, as the t-shirt that I picked up from Bellesa courtesy of the incredible Jayne Renault says: No Fake Orgasms. Faking an orgasm not only minimizes the importance of your pleasure, but it also diminishes you.
And you deserve to be cherished for the gift you are by everyone, yourself included.
Be well, be wonderful, and above all, be you.