It isn’t all that difficult to pull off (I’ll get to that later). Of course, I would have rather actually orgasmed, but sometimes I can’t. I take medication to keep my depression and anxiety in check, and that can affect my ability to get off. Booze plays a role, too.
When that happens, it can be easier to fake an orgasm than to keep banging one out when you’re just thrusts away from chafing.
Faking an orgasm feels dishonest, in a way, but I don’t think there’s any harm in doing it every once in a while. After it’s over, we both get some rest and no one feels offended.
Well, until you get caught.
The first time Morgan and I had sex, I wore a condom, which made sense since we’d just met. We were both drunk and despite hooking up for hours (it was awesome), neither of us got off. It was mutually understood, so we didn’t talk about it.
For the next month or so we continued going out together and having sex pretty often. There were several times when I faked it because the condom dried out before I reached orgasmic bliss.
To pull it off, I’d moan, grunt, and make some frenetic movements to indicate I was done.
It becomes much more difficult to fake it when you’re not wearing a rubber. The semen has to go someplace, right?
The first few times Morgan and I had sex without condoms (which we did because she was using an IUD and we’d both been tested for STDs), I got off just fine. I pulled out and finished myself off.
Then one night, I couldn’t finish. When I gave up and rolled onto my back, she said, “Did you just come inside me!?”
“No!” I said. “I wouldn’t do that without you asking me to.”
“So you didn’t get off?”
“No, I didn’t. I’m probably too drunk. I’m sorry.”
Then she started things back up by going down on me, but still, no dice.
She took my inability to finish that night personally. She said she felt like it was her fault, but I blamed the whiskey.
I told her it had nothing to do with her and that sometimes this happens to dudes.
“Sex is still the most fun thing in the world even when it doesn’t end in climax,” I said. “I mean, haven’t you ever not gotten off from having sex?” I asked.
“Yeah, but that’s different,” she said.
When we woke up, we gave it another shot. I finished, and she gave me a high five.
But a week later, I was failing at it again. Only this time I hadn’t been drinking, so I couldn’t use that excuse. I didn’t want to disappoint her again—so I decided to fake it.
I put on some theatrics and pulled out. I moved to the side of her, and made it look like I was having a five-star orgasm experience. I collapsed on the bed, breathing heavily and sweating, in the area where my semenshould have been.
“Well, I guess I should wash my comforter,” I said.
“You didn’t just come, did you?” she asked. “You faked it.” She rolled to her side and looked over at me, and said, “Why would you do that?” She looked upset and told me I wasn’t convincing at all. She had a point.
And that’s when I came clean to Morgan about my mental health issues. At this point, I was only comfortable discussing it with my closest friends and family. I always worried other people would start to treat me differently.
This wasn’t how I wanted to tell her, but I felt much better once I did. She seemed to feel good knowing that my inability to come had nothing to do with her.
“She looked upset and told me I wasn’t convincing at all.”
She told me she was happy that I told her, and that I could be honest about anything. We spent most of that night talking about what it felt like to have a panic attack or a day when you can’t get out of bed.
We were together for a while after that night, and she was very patient with my penis and me.
In the end, faking an orgasm helped me realize that I didn’t have to fake anything.