Yesterday, I posted a snarky image on my Facebook page depicting an empty parking spot in a “G” section of a parking garage. The caption? “Found it.”
Funny. As of the time I’m writing this post, nearly 500 people have “liked” it. 60+ people have shared it. There are numerous comments, most of those from men. Only a few are from women other than me.
The resounding chorus? “Is this really so hard to find?” ask the menfolk.
“You’re doing it wrong if you don’t find it every time.” <MAN>
“I’ve never had a hard time finding it. Maybe you’ve been letting the wrong person park for you.” <MAN>
“Is it really that hard to find? I’ve never understood this “can’t find it/it doesn’t exist” phenomenon.” <MAN>
“I don’t hold my husband accountable… It’s complicated. More-so than his gear-shift!” <WOMAN>
Because the truth of the matter is, yes. Sometimes it is. And sometimes, women lie about it. How do I know? Because I’ve lied about it.
I know you’re shocked at the prospect that women would lie to you. Kinda like we lie when we tell you that we like your new truck, your latest carbon fly rod, and the restaurant you picked with the servers specializing in apathy and a lackluster tuna tartare. Just like you lie to us when you tell us that of course you want to talk about it and you’re just as excited as we are about the screaming sale we just found at Nordstrom Rack’s shoe department even though you can’t comprehend how we could possible need another pair of black shoes (since we already own not just one but seven pair, plus three pairs of boots in varying heel heights and styles).
We lie. You lie. Because lying is easier than telling the truth about the fact that (at some point in our lives) we aren’t all completely in touch with what turns us on, gets us off, and keeps us going. Even if we are tuned in and turned on and have taken the time (cough – 41 years – cough) to get most of our nether regions all figured out, we all have the wind fall out of our sails every now and again — and for reasons not even Neil Degrasse Tyson and a shit hot episode of Cosmos can explain.
Frankly, I’m surprised that the clitoris isn’t something out of a Harry Potter novel. It’s there, it’s not there. Sometimes it acts the way its supposed to. Others, it just wants to sit in its room at Hogwarts and brood. Did I just nickname my hoo-hah “Hogwarts”? I imagine mine is a cross between Hermoine (a headstrong female) and Dobby (an elusive yet incredibly touching oddity). Most days, however, my clitoris is more like that bouncing ball from Romper Room that used to follow the song lyrics as they scrolled across the screen. Throughout my 41 years, I swear there’s been some phantom remote control turning off my television before the song’s over. And on top of that, I’m supposed to have a G-spot and the truth is, I’ve yet to find the sucker.
And oh, darlin’ — I’ve tried. I’ve gone ladyspelunking. I’ve recruited assorted and sundry male volunteers throughout the years and we’ve had a good, long look around my ladycave. We’ve poked and caressed and every now and then, I think there’s the inkling of something…a twitch. A tingle. Annnnnnd then nothing. *cue phantom remote control*
We’ve found fun, laughter, and frustration, but we skip right from the letter F to H. God. Dammit. Wait — was that a G? IRRELEVANT. In a technical sense, Google Maps would return with “unable to reach server” if you typed “Erika’s G-spot” into the search box (box pun intentional), nary a blue dot of happiness to be seen on the screen.
So, yeah. I used to lie about it. I’ve faked it. And if you’ve dated me anytime in the past 10 years, here’s your truth bomb: LIES. Way more faking than truth. I could be an audio double for Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.
I wasn’t doing it to be disingenuous.
I lied about it because — goddamn — you’re doing everything else right and my body just wasn’t cooperating. I wanted you to feel great about what you were doing for me and a fakegasm was my gift to you.
I used to lie because I cared about you. What we did together felt beyond brilliant, but my body isn’t made to be the compliant machine with each and every lick and stick. I’m not the girl who’s prone to the quick and easy orgasm by any means and porn has lied to you (to US).
Porn isn’t the culprit or to blame on any large scale, but it does a damn fine job of perpetuating a few myths:
- All chicks want to do it with another woman.
- We all want to do it with another woman while you watch.
- All women can easily orgasm and subsequently gush and groan – and all withing the span of seven to 22 minutes. (Jesus — even sitcoms are 26 minutes long.)
Dearfuckchrist, you have no idea how I wish that #3 were the truth. Just as I have to remember that Love, Actually is a brilliantly written (scripted) movie, we all might do well to remember that what we hear in porn most times isn’t real (they use after effects and audio dubbing just the same as Hollywood movies) and that it generally takes more than three licks to get to the center of a lady’s Tootsie Roll Pop.
But we ladies might do well to consider whether faking it is helping or hurting our collective cause. This is something I’ve had a good, long (and hard) think about.
I was told by one man I’ve slept with (yes, shocker — there has been more than one) that I was the first woman he wasn’t able to make orgasm. First, this makes me feel like a failure, disappointed yet again in being the owner of a body that enjoys sex, touching, play, and every little bit of sumfin’ sumfin’ yet can’t seem to orgasm every time.
Secondly, it made me think about how many women before me had faked it for this guy, setting me up for failure.
So I thought about it: When I fake it — when I lie to you and make you think that you’ve found the solution for peace in the Middle East somewhere between my left and right thigh — am I being good and kind or am I setting the next woman up for failure?
My truth? While I’m
never rarely sleeping with a man thinking about the thoughts and feelings of the next woman he’ll be sleeping with, I’ve stopped faking.
Something I’ve realized as I’ve grown older is that my life and the relationships in it got better when I became a better communicator. I’m not a porn star (though parodying one was fun). I’m not one of my girlfriends who swears she can orgasm any way, any how, and I will swear on anything holy that she’s an alien. But I do pride myself on being an attentive, adventurous, and giving lover.
When it comes down to the truth of things and my manfriend is about to have a significant chiropractic bill and I should consider offering some sort of mileage program for the time he spends south of the border…***
I just say that it’s not going to happen. I say it lovingly. Then I ask what I might be able to do for him.
***All I can say is that my mileage program would offer a lot better seating options than United but the flight attendants would be more on the Southwest side of things.
And sure — sometimes there’s playful pouting and question asking. I’m ready with truthful answers because the how-are-the-Kardashians-even-still-relevant kind of truth is that sometimes it requires an engraved invitation on Crane stationery and others, not even an act of Congress could get me there. Yeah, there. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy things any less or could possibly enjoy things any more. Saddle-up the pony and let’s ride, baby — are you really going to put it back in the barn because it wasan’t in the mood for taking a sugar cube out of your hand?
It just means I’m built differently (as I’m sure many women are) and I along with my ladyparts relish the sugarcubes when they’re goddamned good and ready. You can’t cram ’em in a girl’s face, though, because you happened to bring sugar cubes.
Maybe it would help the menfolk to think about a woman’s inability to reach orgasm in terms of “morning wood.” Some menfolk can mix the batter in the love kitchen forever in the A-M but some of y’all can’t seem to put the icing on the cake, knowwhatI’msayin’? Sometimes we ladies have morning wood of our own in the love kitchen. We’re down, we’re dirty, we’re present and accounted for…but there simply ain’t gonna be any icing going on. Mkay?
So yeah — some women lie about orgasming. Sometimes it’s because we’re done with sex and can’t match your stamina. Sometimes, our heads are elsewhere (just as your head can be elsewhere mid-deed). And other times, it’s because we haven’t yet gotten to know our bodies and even if we have, we’re frustrated with them because everyone from Cosmo to Hollywood tells us we should be able to have that zipless, mindblowing, instagasm (which would be a really cool app for my iPhone). But we don’t always. And if you’re a lady who can always, bra-fucking-vo m’lady. It should be delightful that we’re each built differently. Funny how we put the same expectations on everyone in spite of that, isn’t it? (And ladies, we do the same with the gents, I’m afraid.)
In 41 years, I’ve yet to find my G-spot and that’s perfectly fine with me. Maybe it’ll pop up this year or next, but since they already made the movie Hunt for Red October, I’ve stopped worrying about it. This lets me spend my energy on things that matter and that are ultimately more rewarding — like my partner. On giving. On receiving. And the rare man I spend my sans-clothing time with every now and then seems to appreciate my candor. Maybe he’s lying to me. Who knows? But at least I’m kind and honest and he’ll never have to wonder what’s real, loving, and truthful because the answer is all of it.
Sooooo…that’s why I’ve lied. Maybe it’s why other women lie about their G-spot and orgasming as well. But this is also why I don’t lie anymore. I’m all for screwing the guy I’m in bed with but I’m not interested in screwing it up for the next lady who might come along should he and I not find our happily ever after. I’m not for screwing with his head either, setting a precendent where I have to say that X always happens when Y happens…when that’s not even true for guys. I don’t need to be “fixed.” It’s not that I haven’t found a man with exceptional enough ladyspelunking skills. I’m just tired of lying. It takes way too much energy and that’s energy I’d rather spend on having fun with someone I’ve decided to pursue an intimate reltionship with (and for however long).
And maybe faking it serves you and you’re cool with it. No judgement from me in the slightest. But as a gal who’s still in search of her happily ever after, naked and clothed, I’d rather start that relationship from a point of, “Here’s my quirk: I’m the owner of an elusive orgasm — and it’s kinda along the lines of trying to find the social good in anything Chris Christie does. Wanna have some fun and hunt this sucker down together?” It’s my responsibility to know me well enough to help any him along the way, and being honest seems to be the best way I can think of to help him help me.
I’m not saying that there’s not a place for lies — that’s a topic for another post entirely. But if you can’t be honest when you’re naked, what good is being naked in the first place? And sure, luck can be a thing and I’ve had the fortune of uh-maze-zing first times with partners involving little guidance. But I’ll posit that nearly every good orgasm on a woman’s part generally involves a woman willing to be honest with her partner about what, where, and when.
And to me, that makes honesty even sexier.