In the past year and change, I have not had an orgasm induced by a female.
Please do not misunderstand me. I’m not enduring some sort of epic and depressing dry run. There have been lasting sexual encounters. I’ve had sex a not-completely-shameful number of times in the past 365 days, and each time with a beautiful woman with all of the working parts any sane straight man would desire when it comes to, well, coming.
I’ve just been unable to shoot one off.
It feels kind of good to get that off my chest. Though I would much rather be getting off on her chest, amirite?! (I hate myself.)
There are reasons for this.
You see, I haven’t had a serious girlfriend for more than six years. And in the interspersing time, the periods where I’ve had a semi-regular sexual partner have been sporadic at best. Since I haven’t dated steadily (or dated much at all, really), the majority of my hookups have been, for lack of a better term, quick and dirty. And if I’m in the position to execute a quick and dirty hookup, then I’m probably also intoxicated. And when I’m intoxicated, I can’t get off to save my life. It’s just the way things have gone for me.
Add to that this full disclosure: for the past couple of years, I’ve been taking a nightly dose of a drug that is supposed to help me combat anxiety and depression. It does a pretty great job of it, to the point that I’m not in any hurry to try getting off of it. But it does also make it difficult to achieve orgasm. When I first started taking it, my sexual drive was lower than I could ever remember it being, which was kind of nice, actually. (When you spend virtually every moment from age 13 on thinking carnally about women, a break from that madness isn’t entirely unwelcome.)
But then the all-consuming sex drive came back. It just didn’t bring with it my penchant for premature ejaculation. (And, to be honest, I’d rather not come at all than to come in a minute-and-a-half.)
I suppose we can also add to this mix that I am not in the best physical shape of my life. So I can’t keep thrusting away like I used to. It’s a problem, and I’m working to resolve it. But in the meantime, I maybe can’t go as long as it would take for me to come to fruition, though I’m pretty sure that if I could go this long, the women underneath me would fall asleep and I’d probably experience at least mild chafage.
People are often confounded when I tell them I can get myself off, but that I can’t get off while actually having sex with a woman. But it’s basic physics: my hand can move up and down much more rapidly than I’ll ever be able to thrust my hips. And sometimes, it’s all about friction.
Women sometimes think that I’m bullshitting them.
“But guys ALWAYS get off!” they say.
“Not always,” I say, wondering if they’ve ever had sex with a really drunk guy before, and if so, do they just consider sex the morning after as a carryover from the night before, when he couldn’t shoot one off due to whiskey dick?
“But what to do you do? Do you fake it?” They then commence a full-blown freak-out where they wonder if their husband or boyfriend has been faking it this entire time. (Which, really, who cares? Women fake it all the time, don’t they?)
“No. I don’t fake it.” I say. “I just stop, apologize for not being able to get off, tell them why I was unable to, assure them that it has nothing to do with their sexual prowess or inner or outer beauty, and that there’s nothing they can do. Then I ask if they’d like a Gatorade. Sometimes they take offense to my penis’s inability to deliver, and sometimes they want to keep trying—almost like it’s some kind of challenge for them to get me off. Then I tell them that it’s really not that big a deal, that sex is the greatest thing in the world for me even if I don’t achieve my own grand finale finish—that I’ve had plenty of orgasms and I already know what it feels like. And that every time you have sex you get an entry to the spank bank.”
Then I realize that maybe I should make these women believe that guys sometimes fake it, and that maybe I should start doing so, just to avoid the awkwardness that ensues when I explain to them that I am a drunken depressed guy.
“Well, I did fake it the one time. But I didn’t know I had. So I don’t know if it really counts.”
Usually, they want details.
A while ago, I was having sex with a woman who had come to visit me from my hometown. (It didn’t work out. So it goes.) When I ran out of sexual energy, I collapsed on the bed. Then we went to sleep.
The next morning, we went to brunch. While we were sitting at the table, I looked at the chalkboard of drink specials. One in particular—the Brooklyn Fizz—caught my eye, and I started giggling.
“What?” she said.
I pointed to the sign and said, “I was just reading that sign, and at first I thought it said “Brooklyn Jizz,” not “Brooklyn Fizz.”
She laughed too, said, “Well I had some Brooklyn Jizz last night!” and then gave me a high five.
No point in telling her now, I thought.
“You sure did!”
The weekend I spent with her was one of the most amazing of my life. I was happy. And I’m not being facetious. The sex was very nice, of course, but it was everything else we did. We even spent some time just lying in my bed, reading together. I hadn’t felt that way about another person in a very long time, and now, more than a year later, I still haven’t gotten over the fact that a few weeks following our special weekend, after seeming as though she was just as into things as I was, she basically ghosted on me. I’ve still not gotten an explanation as to why.
It makes me wonder why she acted like she was so into me in the first place.
It also makes me realize that there are much worse things to fake than an orgasm.