How to fake an orgasm

Sister Innocenta

Sister Maria Emmerentia and I were sitting in the waiting room at the radiologist’s recently, having reached that sad age where even medical personnel feel compelled to pander to one’s innate masochism. Mammogram time … Apparently Sister Inmaculada had been helping Sister Maria Emmerentia with her routine breast examination, when a suspicious lump was discovered. After waiting a few days for the love bites and teeth marks to fade, Sister Maria Emmerentia asked me to accompany her to the radiologist for a mammogram.

The waiting room was full of sagging chairs and dog-eared magazines, overweight men on crutches and teenagers with plastercasts, and a bevy of reception staff displaying competitive ineptitude at erecting a plastic Christmas tree in the TV corner. After the fourth collapse and accompanying shower of tinsel and angels, I reached for a magazine and distraction. As I was flipping through, an article on orgasm caught my eye.

The author was expounding on the number of types of orgasm — generally held to be two, either real/fake, or vaginal/clitoral — and proposing some alternative classification involving three types, namely vaginal, clitoral and “fake”, all of which the author considered “real”. By this stage the erection of the Christmas tree seemed a little more inspiring than being beaten over the head by the pathetic state of local magazine journalism, but fortunately another timely distraction arrived, as Sister Maria Emmerentia’s name was called.

Sister Maria Emmerentia has monumental breasts. Flattening them to the half-inch thickness required for the mammogram took quite some doing, though the pain lacked the bite of flagellation to make it enjoyable. No lump could possibly have withstood that! Still, in an attempt to draw her attention away from the discomfort evidenced by her smarting eyes and straining fists, I began to discuss the magazine article with her.

“Three types?” she asked. “The joystick, the happy valley, and … the mind?”

“That’s what the author claimed,” I reported. “She seemed to think that fake orgasms were just as real to her as real ones. Clearly, then, her real ones couldn’t have been very real!”

But Sister Maria Emmerentia just shook her head. “How does one fake an orgasm?” she asked incredulously.

“I can always tell when a woman’s faking,” Brad boasted to Mike.

“‘Cept they don’t when they’re with me!” Mike scowled confoundedly into his beer, while Brad swayed a little before continuing. “There’s a secret, Bru. You see this?” He held up a little finger. “Just slip in it the servants’ entrance, and you’ll know all right!”

“Hah!” exploded Laurie behind Mike. “And how do you think we fake it, then, Loverboy? If we want to fake it, that’s exactly where we’ll do it. A couple of quick knype, and we’re out of there. Too bad if you’re not finished, it’s not an act of charity. And if all women claim to have faked it, and no man claims a woman’s ever faked it with them, how does that add up? Lots of misled vibrators? Aren’t you a stats major? You should be able to do the sums and work out at least someone is lying!”

Mike turned to Laurie. “Have you ever faked?” he asked, quietly.

“Of course,” she snorted. “Sometimes you realise that the assembled product just doesn’t match the picture on the box, and that there’s no way it’s going to function as promised. After a few minutes of hope, reality kicks in and you know that you’re either going to get crushed, drowned in beery sweat or suffer Assault with GBH on your tender bits unless you take Evasive Action. So, if they’re sober enough to notice, you gooi a fake, slip out of the bed and into the shower, and rush home to let in your housemate who — you’d “forgotten” — had left her keys in your car earlier. Often, though, you needn’t even bother. They’re so concerned about their own one-gun salute they don’t even notice you’ve gone home!”

Mike shook his head, slowly. “Including,” he asked quietly, inclining his head at Brad, “him?” Laurie snorted derisively. “He couldn’t even get it up!” she stage-whispered. “He tried to cover by going down on me, but it was like a boy scout practising mouth to mouth on a Red Cross dummy. The patient died.”

Visibly cheered, Mike turned to Brad.

“So …” Mike reached for the peanuts, “if women fake to avoid embarrassing their men, where does this leave The Modern Relationship? Isn’t honesty supposed to be critical to its survival?”

Brad scowled as he took a swig from his near-empty glass. “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything! Honesty simply shrivels in the face of questions like, ‘Do these jeans make my bum look big?’ or anything that involves a comparison with Megan McKenzie. If you had to tell them honestly that you’d rather watch the Stormers vs Cats match than go to their sister’s wedding, can you just imagine how long that relationship is going to survive? So instead you swallow half a tube of toothpaste, worship at the porcelain altar while she’s smearing designer gunk on her face, and stagger, ashen, to the couch, where you lie in real agony until she suggests that you might be less of an embarrassment if you remained at home. And,” he glared pointedly at Laurie, “there’s no faking involved!”

Laurie rolled her eyes dramatically and smiled conspiratorially at Mike as she headed off to the ladies’.

Mike shook the money out of his pocket, settled his tab and checked the change. Squinting past the big-screen TV, he confirmed with the clock that, if he hurried, he could still get to the 7-11 before closing time. He had just enough on him for a pack of Duracells, and he was sure he could persuade Laurie to give him driving lessons on the Danny the Dolphin that Liz had presented him with, snidely, when they broke up.

Sister Annunciata completed the crossword with a flourish and passed the magazine on to Sister Thomas for the horoscopes.

“That’s all very well,” she sighed, “but should we not be encouraging today’s women to demand their due? This self-sacrifice for the sake of peace in the home is not exactly a liberated perspective, now, is it?”

“‘Tis more blessed to give than to receive,” replied Sister Maria Emmerentia piously. “Besides, in giving, one receives.” She caressed her sore breasts tenderly. “A moment’s pleasure is often a small sacrifice for a lifetime’s joy.”

“A lifetime’s servitude, more likely!” Sister Annunciata rejoined. “Why ever would some women’s magazine be advocating a return to the dark ages before sexual enlightenment? What’s in it for them, or for their readers?”

“For them, sales — I’m sure that issue flew off the shelves into the clutches of frustrated women everywhere!” Sister Thomas offered. “And for their readers, relief — falling short of perfection is OK. You don’t have to be a perfect mother, CEO of the company and a consummate cook and still have orgasms too — so long as you get the rest right, it’s OK to fall short on the orgasm side. As long, of course, as you don’t rub it in his face.”

“Rub it in his face?” Sister Inmaculada and Sister Maria Emmerentia exchanged glances and discreetly left the room.

“Now there’s an article I wouldn’t mind reading! How about it, Sister Innocenta?”

I shook my head slowly. “I think that’s best left as a Grade 9 essay,” I suggested. “Anyone else for Horlicks — I think there’s still time before Vespers?”

to the top

© Kopiereg in die ontwerp en inhoud van hierdie webruimte behoort aan LitNet, uitgesluit die kopiereg in bydraes wat berus by die outeurs wat sodanige bydraes verskaf. LitNet streef na die plasing van oorspronklike materiaal en na die oop en onbeperkte uitruil van idees en menings. Die menings van bydraers tot hierdie werftuiste is dus hul eie en weerspieël nie noodwendig die mening van die redaksie en bestuur van LitNet nie. LitNet kan ongelukkig ook nie waarborg dat hierdie diens ononderbroke of foutloos sal wees nie en gebruikers wat steun op inligting wat hier verskaf word, doen dit op hul eie risiko. Media24, M-Web, Ligitprops 3042 BK en die bestuur en redaksie van LitNet aanvaar derhalwe geen aanspreeklikheid vir enige regstreekse of onregstreekse verlies of skade wat uit sodanige bydraes of die verskaffing van hierdie diens spruit nie. LitNet is ’n onafhanklike joernaal op die Internet, en word as gesamentlike onderneming deur Ligitprops 3042 BK en Media24 bedryf.