You clicked on the title thinking, oh here she goes, she’s going to rant about the female orgasm. About time you thought? Well, I could rant on for a while about that. A very long while in fact. Why are we still faking them?! I’m saying we, because bloody hell when needs must, so do I.
The only sane explanation/comparison I can give to you boys and girls is this ;
Let’s imagine we’re in a Theme Park. You get on the roller coaster because the person you’re with tempted you to, even though you wouldn’t have if you were alone, but it’s nice to do things together and sometimes you have to compromise and please others.
You sit on the rollercoaster and the first corner is OK otherwise you would have immediately signed the alarm, but by the third corner you’re thinking ‘fuck this is fucking awful’ but there’s not much you can do. You can’t press the emergency stop button now because you know absolutely everyone would be pissed off with you for next few hours for ruining their fun and making ‘selfish’ decisions. It’s best just to shut your eyes make the appropriate noises, put your hands in the air in forced glee and hope to good god this is a quick ride.
Now do you get me? No?
OK, You’re halfway in. Her bra has had a fumbled execution, you’ve snogged for the required minimum, pants down parade has passed and penetration party has commenced. She’s pretty damn arid down there and you both know she is but you’re both pretending she’s not. Out of the blue, she suddenly remembers that she hasn’t submitted one of her piano pupils for her grade 1 and the deadline is due tomorrow… suddenly her brain is not in that bed/car/field(each to their own) anymore.
In fact, her brain is frantically clicking on the ABRSM website. If her brain isn’t focused, you may as well be planting cabbages mate, she is never going to come. Now, this isn’t new breaking news, in fact science backs up that 99% of a woman’s orgasm comes from her brain.
So, as much as she loves/likes/fancies the person inside her (who’s sweating profusely and quite obviously busily imagining she’s Britney Spears in the ‘Slave for You’ video and ignoring the fact that she’s got that puzzled face on that she usually has when she can’t remember where she put her sudocrem), she has lost focus. The likelihood of her orgasming (apparently this isn’t a word, screw you red line) is similar to the likelihood of me having a new year’s eve without at one point considering emigrating to Austria on my own and opening a beagle orphanage.
It’s not because we want to lie to you, trick you, or the more popular assumption, boost your ego. No, It’s because it’s easier to fake it. It’s easier. Humans like things that are easy. Travelators… frozen jacket potatoes… self adhesive stamps…I could go on, but it would be easier not to.
ANYHOW, this blog is absolutely not about faking orgasms, although now a good chunk of it actually it, and bloody hell I could write a dissertation on the topic, but today’s not the day.
This is a word vomit following from my summer blog ‘Vagina Dating’ where I planned to try and take my heart on dates rather than just my vagina. I was aware as I was writing that it wasn’t going to be simple and by the cold month of November I’ve actually come to the conclusion that it’s something that I possibly can’t actually do.
The truth is, you take everything with you on a date, because as a human you’re a compact (some more so than others…eye rolling emoji) package. Regardless of what you plan/want to take, you take the whole package, it’s just that you only use the bits that you think are appropriate at the time. A bit like when you go caravanning. Sure, you take your fur hat, your wellies and your inflatable watermelon rubber ring, you absolutely can’t play safe enough when caravanning, especially in Britain. But you’re not going to whack on your fur hat and your wellies and jump into your inflatable watermelon are you?!
When do I get to the bit about ‘faking it’? Bear with.
From my understanding and experience, a relationship, as it is today, in the modern world consists of the matching of three things.
Now, surely the chances of those three elements being bang on between two people is extremely low?
Oops, Am I being cynical again? (If so, I blame Brexit, UKIP and Trump. They’re getting the blame for everything these days, period pains, bad hair days, gone off yoghurt still in the fridge……)
Back to the point. As a nation of Bake Off lovers, we all know soufflés are bloody hard to make, and consist on a lot of elements being bang on to achieve a perfectly risen soufflé, a bit like a relationship does?
So not every Paul, Delia and Mary can just whack out a puffy, beautiful soufflé at the drop of a rolling pin, but there seem to be relationships (which are, surely, scientifically even more complex than a soufflé to perfect) rising like bloody hot cakes all around me.
So my question is this, are people just faking it? (And there it is!)
Are they just pretending to the world and possibly each other, that their relationship consists of those three matching elements? Or are they just ordering a soufflé but happily settling for a quick omelette?
Now maybe, contradictory to what I’ve said above, there is no specific requirement for a perfect relationship, and that it’s all much more spiritual than scientific and actually consists of no necessary matching elements, just unexplained fireworks.
If so, maybe they aren’t lying to us, (us being the ever judging social media eye, they being everyone in a seemingly perfect relationship) maybe we’re just assuming that they have everything when we double tap that picture? Maybe we’re the ones guilty of ‘faking it’?
Day to day, I often ask myself, am I just a cynical, bitter, late twenties singleton that’s skimming through Instagram subconsciously zooming in on every tightly held hand, every gentle kiss on the head, every loved up cackle, and point blank refusing to accept that they are simply happy because it makes me feel better to think otherwise?
Am I also just conveniently choosing to ignore 2011’s census statistic that states that the UK is 51% single…most of them rattling around in London frantically searching for that happy ending?
Or am I just happier being a cynical, bitter, late twenties singleton striving for a soufflé rather than be someone who’s potentially, genuinely satisfied with an omelette diet?
YES to the latter.