I was faking it…

one woman’s search for orgasm

Posts Tagged ‘virginity

Have I ever what-gasmed?

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I have a friend, Laura, who I’ve known since we were 12. Laura is a intelligent woman who never appeared to struggle with school work, however at some point during our shared journeys from elementary to high school she decided that she wasn’t smart enough to go to university. I don’t know how or why she came to this conclusion, but when myself and the rest of our friends shot off for various universities, she got a job in retail and never really left it.

Of course, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this career choice, if that’s what makes you happy, but I know, from the whistful expression that appears on her face whenever the topic comes up that there’s a part of Laura that would love to get a post-secondary education.

the extent of my sex-edification

the extent of my sex-edification

Unfortunately, no matter how many times I’ve told her that half the people sleep right through lecture and if they can still manage to succeed in ‘higher learning’ than so can she–she refuses to listen.

I’ve never been able to understand why Laura just doesn’t try it—enroll in just one class, instead of giving up before she’s even started—until I realized that is exactly what I’ve been doing for the thirty years. Only for me, the problem isn’t academics: it’s sex.

I took me several years of being ‘sexual active’ before I realized that I’d never had an orgasm. After all, for a first timer, just being naked in a bed with a man was exciting enough in itself—ohmygod he’s putting his fingers in there–so that I never wondered if I was missing out on anything. 

And even if I had, it wasn’t like I would have had the confidence to do anything abou: there is no time during life when communication is more awkward and uncomfortable (including funerals and underwater diving) than during novice sex. In fact, the very first time I had intercourse I was too shy to ask my boyfriend if he was wearing a condom—which he assumed meant I was on the pill. I wasn’t, and nether was he.

It wasn’t until I was in my first long term relationship that I actually became comfortable enough to talk about sex, and what I did and didn’t like—with my girlfriends (I was still years away from the guide-his-hand stage).

It was talking to friends like Laura, who was giving hand jobs to her boyfriend and fellow barista behind the counter by this point, that I first heard about ‘female orgasms’ and realized I’d never had one. As enjoyable as sex had been up till that point, I’d certainly never experienced ‘the earth moving’ or a ‘millions stars bursting across my pelvis’. What a rip-off!

So, I did what I was always did when something happened that seemed unfair: nothing.

Based on Laura’s stories, I assumed that, like my inability to whistle and turn my tongue into a U-shape, I just wasn’t genetically able to do ‘come’. And I never tried. That was about eight years ago.

However, last night, I picked up a book called I Love/Heart Female Orgasms. According to the books authors, Marshall Miller and Dorian Solot, I gave up way too easily.

While many studies have found that 5-10% of women have never had an orgasm, this statistic is misleading. Many of these women are young and haven’t learned how to orgasm yet…The percentage of women who would like to have an orgasm but are truly physically unable to is minuscule. Statistically speaking, it’s unlikely that you’re one of them (source, 66).

Ohmygod! I’m not broken! And ohmygod think of all the time and possible ecstasy that’s gone to waste because I was too timid and lazy to experiment with clitoral rubbing or nipple massage or any of the other techniques the authors suggest (but that’s for my next post).

Fortunately, it’s not too late: I’m thirty and this time, unlike that phase several years ago when I was determined to learn how to whistle—I’m going to make it happen.

And if Laura ever changes her mind and decides to take a chance, just think of all the fun she’ll have with those twenty-two year-old freshman.


John or Jane: who’s hornier?

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Do boys really want it more than girls?

Like, duh, of course they do.

At least that was what I would have said if anyone had asked me that question as a teenager and was first beginning to navigate the opposite sex–or should I say, navigate the enemy.

At that time, boys were things that me and my girlfriends had crushes on but never dared get too close, partly because we were too shy to get past the blushing-face phase of the conversation, and partly because of the fear that if we ever wound up alone with one of them, they would morph into an eight-armed-incredible hulk-monstrosity that would consume our fragile bodies whole.

Sure, we were curious about sex, but we weren’t boys.  Boys wanted it so bad they couldn’t be trusted—that was just a fact of life—like chin pimples and math homework.

Thus, it’s not surprising to read the findings of currant ‘scientific’ studies: women have lower libidos than their male partners  and suffer, en masse, from disorders such as FOD. Right?

Naomi Wolf doesn’t seem to think so. In Promiscuities she debunks this ‘fact’, stating that “women have been considered more carnal than men for most of the record of Judeo-Christian history [and] that the belief  women want sex less than men is only over two centuries old” (p.142).


the only way to tame a woman's libido, old school-style

Girls were the horny ones?  For someone who spent her entire adolescence trying to ward off boys, I found this as quite the shocker when I read this a couple days ago—but not in a bad way. 

“I want to see you wearing nothing but saran wrap,” whispered Steve as I passed by him in my high school corridor.  Steve was a popular but mean boy in my grade.

Though they were only words, it felt like he’d grabbed my butt or slipped his hand up my shirt.  My face turned bright red as I hurried off in the opposite direction.  Sex was something scary to me and he probably knew that.

Looking back on that time in my life, however, I also remember that the idea of sex excited me.

It was around that same time that I discovered The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer,  a fictional account of a young teenage girl’s illicit sexual activities. I spent many nights lying in my bed fantasizing about doing the things that she did, sneaking off to a bar and giving oral sex to a strange guy in the middle of the night. Of course, I never talked to anyone about those thoughts—not even my best friend—because girls weren’t supposed to think that way. That was what boys did.

I wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t been so embarrassed about my emerging sexual desires?  Sure, I’m glad I never ran off to the local Hells Angels bar but I would have liked to have replied back to Steve with a something more than tight lips and down cast eyes.

“Throw in some Cool-whip and I’m there, baby.”

I would have loved to see his reaction at hearing words like those come out of one of the quiet, ‘good’ girl’s mouth.

Virgin or Slut: choose your poison

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The crappy thing about being a young, adolescent girl (which I no longer am, thank god) is that either way, whether we’re doing ‘it’ or not, we feel ashamed.

Not only did feel guilty (see previous post) acknowledging my status as a sexually active young woman when I finally started having sex, but there was also the guilt that accompanied being a sexually inactive young woman.

Careful to avoid the label of slut or skank, I was one of the ‘good girls’ that vowed to wait for true love before giving up what seemed so precious and valuable that it was almost a real, tangible thing in my mind—like a golden bracelet with words virgin engraved on the surface.

And then of course, came the day when a boy I’d had a crush on since I was 13, the one with the most beautiful face I’d ever seen on a boy, asked me out at the local supermarket (much to my delight and shock because ohmygod I was wearing sweatpants and a ponytail and was not dressed for such a life-altering encounter!).

if only i'd had a pair of these...

if only i'd had a pair of these...

We went out for dessert, which consisted of him eating a slice of apple pie and me stirring my cup of black coffee nervously (those were still in my eating disorder days when I thought girls were more desirable to the opposite sex if they professed to have no appetite, but that’s for another post).

Afterwards, we went to his mom’s (empty) townhouse and watched TV on the couch in total awkward silence.  All I really wanted was to taste his perfectly formed mouth: he invited me up to his bedroom instead.

There were definitely warning bells as I mounted the carpeted steps to his room, but in the face of his god-like presence how could I say no? He was the guy every girl in my school had fantasized over and he had asked me out.

Maybe he just wanted out make-out, I thought.

Maybe not.

I’ve since learned that boys who resemble the men in Gucci ads are not to be trusted. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before we were lying in his bed and I felt him tugging my panties down to my ankles.

Was this how I wanted it to happen? With this guy, who gorgeous as he was, had only ever had one conversation with me the entire four years since we’d first been going to school together?

Thankfully, as paralyzed as I was, I managed to squeak out a tiny “stop” before we went ‘all the way’. And in about the same amount of time it took him to get me undressed, he had dropped me off by the side of the road in front of my parent’s house.

Of course, he never called me again.

According to feminist theory, I should have felt empowered for standing up for myself—but I didn’t. I felt horrible. I felt ashamed for  not being ‘mature’ or ‘cool’ enough to keep my mouth shut and let him take what he wanted from my body.  I wasn’t a slut, I was worse: I was frigid, or better yet, a cock-tease.

Granted, I had managed to hold on to something I thought was important to me, but the sense of shame I felt for doing so was just as strong as it would have been if I’d hadn’t told him to stop.

Damned if you, damned if you don’t.

Now the real question is, where did all that sexual identity guilt go? I have a bad feeling that it’s still living inside me somewhere.

Written by jaquieonassis

January 19, 2009 at 10:35 pm

Bladder infections: am i being punished?

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It’s been two and a half years since I had once last—but sure enough the day I start writing about my desire to orgasm I get a bladder infection.

There are two parts of getting a bladder infection that I hate. The first is the pain—a dull burning that that makes me feel like I have a bloated pig corpse in the cavity where my bladder once was. Even though the pig is dead, it still gets pissed when I need to pee.

206-09-pig-roast-tupi-philippines1The second part about bladder infections that make me uncomfortable is having to utter the words ‘intercourse’ to health care professionals.

In fact, ever since I first lost my virginity in my early twenties (yes, I waited longer than most) I’ve disliked having to reveal any part of my sex life to adult strangers. Or, even worse, adult non-strangers—as happened following one of my first times having sex and the unfortunate incident of a condom breakage.

After the initial panic passed, I managed to haul my ass into a clinic to get a prescription for the morning-after-pill. I could have, of course, gone to see my family doctor, but specifically avoided his office. He was a nice guy, but he happened to have delivered my sister when she was born and went on regular hiking trips with my parents. The last thing that I, who would have gladly bought the little white pills out of a vending machine and thus avoided any human interaction at all, wanted to do was admit that I was having sex to someone who was virtually my uncle.

I was sitting on the white-paper sheet of the clinic daybed, when who arrived to see me but, of course, Dr. Uncle!

I was mortified.

Somehow I got through the visit without passing out from embarrassment, got my little pills, got sick from their effects on my body (I swear those things are made out of Drain-o) and am still happily childless to this day. However, even fifteen years later I feel the same stomach tightening nervousness I did back then when I have to sit down on those white-paper sheets and tell someone about my sex-related health issues (I still keep my eyes out for prescription vending machines but have yet to see one).

Why is that?

In Promiscuities, author Naomi Wolf describes how women’s sexual activity has been forbidden in western societies for centuries, citing such horrific forms of social pressure as those imposed by the Burgundians, where any female sexual activity outside of marriage was considered ‘adulterous’—even for single girls and widows—and thus marked the ‘perpetrators’ as untouchable for the rest of her life.

Though on the surface our society supposedly encourages sexual exploration and freedom amongst its female populace, the same sense of moral condemnation still persists below the surface—labeling girls and women sluts for expressions of sexuality which might be easily overlooked were they men.

My bladder infection is pretty much cleared after three-days of antibiotics, however my discomfort at having to admit to the male doctor at the walk-in-clinic that yes, I am still an unmarried women having sex, makes me realize that I’m still holding on to some of that Burgundian-style shame.

And to get rid of that, I’ll need a lot more than a few white pills.