Research tells us that 50% of all women fake orgasms. Personally, I think these women are lying- there isn’t a woman alive who has not faked it. No one wants to admit they are not ‘in touch’ with their vagina’s. There is a sure way to drive a man away; stop having sex with him or make him feel you don’t want it. Men love hot and horny women, who want them. Do you think there is market for porn where women just lay there, then tell the guy how bad he was in the sack?
Research tells us women fake for a variety of reasons. The most popular is to end it, preserve his self-esteem, or because we were not aiming for the big O anyway. We fake it because we have sex for many different motives (I’ll blog about this later). We fake it, because we can. Men can’t. There is only one time when women do not fake it- when they are doing it alone.
There is hardly any research on women and orgasms because no one cares whether you have one or not. If 50% of men missed their ‘O’ we’d declare a national crises--level red. Wait! I know what we’d really do. We would come up with a medicine he could take. He could take a pill when he’s not in the mood, has limp-willy syndrome; which usually happens when men are old, tired, under stress or medically unfit. The pill would cause his penis to swell and accompany an urge to rupture like a volcano. He'll feel 15 again, only without the pimples. He will need a partner. I see him now, searching the house for poor wifey; he finds her either in the laundry room folding or scrubbing dishes in the kitchen sink. “Look what I have for you!” he exclaims. She looks and realizes she has her third chore of the night.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. When I see that Viagra commercial I want to vomit. All I can think of is the elderly women with hip issues, rivaling what my German Shepard went through, spread eagle, or worse, on all fours, in service. When I’m eighty with brittle bone disease the last thing I want is a few extra hundred pounds laying on me. Don’t people know that the sex urge needs to decline? At that time when your spine has stenosis or that shoulder is frozen, nature knows that the penis or vagina should get a rest too. Maybe rocking back and forth might be best accomplished on the front porch.
I remember a recent night of passion. My husband began howling. I looked up at him, grimacing. “Oh my God,” he yelled. “My leg has a charley horse.” My ride was over. Now for TMI but you can skip this (or know that maybe it's just humor.)
Oh sure, I still love sex. But not every day. I figure that for the first 15 years of blissful union Hubby had 5,250 orgasms (that I knew about). I was a winner too, at least three fourths of the time. But for the last five years he’s gotten at least 875 frequent flyer miles to my 434.5. There is a half orgasm in there, probably from the time I couldn’t concentrate because the headboard decided to detach from the bedframe and I had to hold it steady for fifteen minutes. Or maybe it’s from when my grandson appeared at the bed asking, “can I have a horsey ride too?” Anyhow, that’s 50% of the time which makes me part of the female statistic. At this rate, which I have calculated, at 70 I can expect to run out of orgasms. Two weeks ago my gynecologist told me my ovaries felt like raisins. He did not give me hope.
But my husband did. “What would you do if I couldn’t preform anymore,” he asks me one evening after one of those pill commercials. This is the commercial where they tell the couple that the pill works any moment he desires it to take effect. I think, "How about never? Is that a prefect time?" I decided to answer him. I tell him that his perfect, wonderful, satisfying buddy, will never stop working. I had to say that; because I love him, and I'm not hopeful.
“You’d go and find someone else to get satisfaction,” he mutters.
“No honey, that would never happen.” Then I think to myself, what planet is he on? When my husband’s dick dies I am going to bury it. Yes I’ll put up a tombstone and memorialize it, but there wouldn’t be a prayer in hell that I would give it mouth to mouth recessitation even, if it were taking its last breath.
Then, I decide to make him feel good about our accomplishments. “Honey, we have broken the Guinness World Book of records for screwing.” I’ve never met anyone else who had sex in the hospital after their caesarean section. Well, maybe the Duggars have us beat. I owe it to him to inflate his worth. “You are the Jack LaLane of machismo, of bravado, and you are just going to be fine.”
He sighs. “It’s just that you are such a highly sexual woman, so responsive and sexy….you are every mans dream…so I wonder how I could every satisfy you forever.”
The poor man is worried. All because my vagina had been speaking in double talk! I brought it on myself. The academy award winning performances, in prefect character, vocalizing impeccably; those words, sounds and movements, had bitten me back. I had convinced him that I was the perfect partner; a $5000 hooker who could cook, clean and stay faithful to one John. Should I tell him about my counterfeit orgasms?
Instead I demurely inquire, “Am I really the prefect partner?”
He says just the right thing. “Sweetheart, I can’t stop thinking about you...sometimes.. .and I just love to touch you…” He cupped my hand and brought it to his lips. I couldn’t help looking into his deep blue eyes or reaching for his arm. He does have the strongest arms. He kisses so perfectly, light kisses that begin on my lips and go up my face. Thank God, those raisins must have has some juice left.
Like most women I could have been perfectly happy to be adored that night. Men don’t get the fact that we don’t need the orgasm fairy every time our heads hit the pillow. But that night she didn’t have to pull any teeth… Dr. Dawn M. Hopper