The first time was during a heatwave. I was flushed and dizzy, the windows wide open, sweat pooling at the small of my back. As a train passed over his apartment, I let out a noise that, to my own ears, sounded like a sultry scream of ecstasy, but that he probably heard as something akin to a puffin being shot.
He paused. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I panted. “I just came really hard.”
He then looked into my eyes and said that one little word every woman wants to hear during sex: “K.”
Maybe he believed me, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he looked down at his dick and gave it a nod of approval. And, naturally, I did what generations of women before me have done in moments like these: I kept going. Loudly. With feeling. I said all the things you’re supposed to say. I arched and sighed and went full method.
Unfortunately, Stella Adler doesn’t teach a class on faking orgasms.
He and I met at a time when I was trying not to feel anything. He was the classic downtown transplant: part-time set designer-slash-skater (whatever that means), guitar in hand, covered in tattoos, with a deep commitment to not texting back. He used to remind me the world didn’t revolve around me, then promise he was coming over—only to fall asleep before showing up.
He lived in a Chinatown walk-up wedged under the Manhattan Bridge, in that stretch of the city where the sky feels oddly low and the air smells of durian. The apartment was one of those long, narrow railroad layouts with bedrooms on either end; his one had a mattress on the floor, a single string of fairy lights that never turned off, and a few peeling posters on the wall. Every time a train went by, the building rattled like it might cave in.
We didn’t have much in common besides our shared fear of intimacy; still, I saw him almost every day for three weeks. He had an incredibly large dick and the emotional range of a kitchen sponge, but he rolled joints with scientific precision and kissed like he was trying to erase you. I’d like to think that now, with a fully developed frontal lobe, I’d never tolerate that kind of man-child behavior again. But at the time, what little he had to give seemed fine. That’s the thing about being young and trying to quiet your fear of aloneness with men—you’re so afraid they’ll leave that you convince yourself the bare minimum is enough. In hindsight, maybe faking it felt like less of a risk to me than asking for more and being denied.
I have friends that are incredible at faking orgasms—true Meryl Streeps of the bedroom. The award for best performance goes to…let’s call her Sue, for her role in One Night Stand with Marco the Bartender! (Cue: round of applause.) The issue is that eventually, Sue became too good. Now, she assumes that any man she sleeps with expects pyrotechnics, even if he’s done the bare minimum. What’s worse: a dishonest person sees liars everywhere. Sue’s overuse of that particular skill set has left her paranoid, convinced the deception must be going both ways.
Over time, I’ve come to see my complete inability to pull off a convincing “O-face” as a blessing in disguise. After that first (and, to date, only) time I tried faking it, honesty in bed became my default position—and here’s the thing: honesty tends to beget honesty. I’ve been forced to discuss with my partners what we both like, what we don’t like, and, most importantly, what we actually want.
Look, I’m not here to shame anyone who’s ever faked it. Honestly, if I had been any good at it, I’d probably still be doing it. But losing that option pushed me to ask some hard questions. Why do we fake it? Who, exactly, are we trying to fool—the men in our beds or ourselves? Is it just about protecting fragile male egos, or have we collectively internalized the idea that our pleasure is optional, secondary, something we’re supposed to perform rather than experience?
Just look at porn. In nearly every clip, the woman is in full vocal meltdown, like an orgasm is a given and not something that takes actual effort. And for many men, porn has become a sort of unofficial sex guide. The first time I got fingered, the guy went in like a contestant on Chopped with 30 seconds left and no dessert on the plate. It was painful. Committed. Misguided. But I didn’t say anything. And I wonder if his Food Channel technique ever changed.
There’s a lesson here, or maybe a call to action: Let’s all drop out of our acting schools and start providing ourselves—and our partners!—with a real education, even if that means getting elementary. (No Michael, that’s my belly button. Slow down Joe, jackhammering is for construction sites.)
These days, when I’m not close, I say so. I don’t lie, or pantomime, or attempt to do damage control. If something feels off, I pause. I take a breath. It’s awkward, sure—no one loves being the girl who suddenly starts talking during sex—but I’ve decided it’s less humiliating than pretending.
I used to think sex was about being liked. Now it feels more like a collaboration—two people doing something slightly weird together and trying, in good faith, not to make it worse. That, I think, is what the best experiences are: messy, sincere, and maybe, just maybe, with an unexpected reward at the end. It’s like taking what’s offered without apology. Like shamelessly returning home with your shoes in your hand and your hair in your mouth. Like looking someone dead in the eye mid-sex; saying, “Yeah, no, I’m not even close”; and watching them not panic. Nothing’s exaggerated, nothing’s cinematic; it’s just real.