It’s Saturday morning. Your hand flails towards the bedside table in search of your glasses, but your fingers curl around a bright red dildo instead. You jump at the touch, even though this happens every morning. After a few more blind grasps, your hand finds your glasses among the rubble of yesterday’s bullet vibes and dildos.
It was basically all a misunderstanding between my clitoris and I. It’s kind of hilarious, really, in a sad sort of way. For years, I couldn’t manage an orgasm using my hands. When I first started having orgasms, it was via a showerhead. Yes, a showerhead. As in, those telephone-style hand-held things that you unhook from the bracket on the shower wall and set to high-speed jet/massage mode. And then move it between your legs and point it at your clitoris. I’d have to squat down close to the bathtub floor, because my legs would shake and thrash and threaten to undermine me if I kept standing.
Faking an orgasm is like lying to your doctor and saying,“Yes, those pills worked” over and over again because you want them to feel like they’ve done a good job. When really, you’re not making them a better doctor. You’re teaching them bad practice. And you’re still sick.