He cums and you don’t. But it feels good when he’s kissing you, and you want him and he wants you and it’s this thing you both want. But then he cums and you don’t. And maybe it doesn’t bother you right away, not at first. Because it was hot, the fact that you made him cum (though later you’ll find out he cums for other girls and porn and a bottle of lotion and the idea of almost any girl ever eating a banana slowly). And so it turns out you’re less of a wizard than a receptacle and isn’t that just the grossest way you’ve ever thought about your vagina and your body. You don’t want to be a receptacle. And maybe you’d feel less like one if he was bothered by the fact that you didn’t cum.
I hear you say the sex was great, the sex is amazing.
Do you cum every time I ask and you pause.
Then what the fuck are you talking about, trying to convince me that just smelling a cheeseburger is enough to make you feel full for the week and you don’t even seen the insanity of it.
And maybe I could get on board with the whole it’s the journey not the destination (relax, I said maybe). Except he’s always cumming. He’s cumming everytime. And there’s all these excuses like it’s harder for women and we’re more complex and you’re goddamn right it is and all the more reason to pay extra attention to it. Because at what point are we just saying that we love watching a man eat steak while we only ever get to think about how great it would taste.
They used to call orgasms “little deaths” which didn’t make that much sense to me, masturbating to my imagination’s content as a teenager.
But every time I hear girls talk about sex like their orgasms don’t matter I die a little inside. So I kind of get it now.