white lies

// explicit //

i faked my first, and second, and all my orgasms with my high school boyfriend.

i remember making the conscious decision, on a winter night in my mother's empty apartment, that i was going to fake it. i had never orgasmed in my life, but i'd read enough e fantasy books and watched half-performative twitter clips that i thought i could.

the irony is a few weeks later, as i discussed it with my best friend in a deserted mall cafeteria, is i found out i may have actually finished. i didn't know what an orgasm felt like. she, in all her wisdom, explained it didn't feel like all it was chalked up to be. i knew that, obviously, but i didn't know what to expect.

anyways. the day after i faked an orgasm with my boyfriend, i faked another. he was proud. thought he took care of me.

i wanted to cry. i had never lied to him before. i fell asleep on his chest, and he held me, even though i hadn't taken care of him.

when i went home, i didn't know how to feel. the internet said i should tell him. that i should self-experiment to see what i like. but i had just gotten on anti-depressants and had barely any sex drive. question forums and blog posts were no help. if you tell him, it'll break your trust. if you don't, you're living with a lie. it's ok, some people said, just don't do it again. i fell down holes of the glamorization of porn and how it gave people unrealistic expectations. how there's an orgasm gap. how men are typically entitled in the bedroom. how it's so fucking common for women to fake their orgasms, because there's such a heavy societal strain on "finishing".

i cried on my mother's bed that day. she wanted to know what was wrong. i didn't tell her.

i told my boyfriend i might've had pcd. or something like that. because it didn't feel like a regular depression episode. the headspace was different. i didn't know if it was the guilt of faking it. i wasn't raised catholic. i didn't care marriage was seen as a precursor to sex. i didn't care we didn't have sex and only did stuff a hop skip jump away from it.

was i crying to mourn my childhood? maybe. i don't think so. growing up isn't tied to innocence. when you're a girl, the world sexualizes you before you even know what that means.

i internally decided i wouldn't tell my boyfriend i faked. i would just never do it again.

until valentine's day rolled around. it was supposed to be special, right? until he admitted he felt insecure in bed when i didn't come. until my anti-depressant dose made it near impossible to feel anything, including sexual attraction. until he wouldn't stop unless i "reached the goal", within safeword proximity.

so yeah. i never lied to him about anything else. not about his ugly graphic tees, or his lacklustre texting style, or how he was obsessed with his girl best friend. but in bed, every time.