Here, Alyssa Royse writes about the aftermath of an accident that left her largely orgasm-less, and how this have affected her sex life.
For me, her piece brings up all sorts of delicious issues to ponder like: What is the goal of sex? How is physical sex different than emotional/spiritual/passionate sex? What constitutes sex? What (if anything) differentiates sex from the sexual?
***
I pretty much don’t have orgasms. I am not alone in that. I have felt guilt, fear and shame around that fact, and I am not alone in that. I have faked it, and I am not alone in that.
Orgasms were always hard to come by for me. But after really learning my body, I could get there, both on my own and with lovers. However, after a car-accident and resulting brain injury, they all but disappeared. And I was, frankly, glad to see them go. As good as they felt for the short time they were happening, the drama and pressure around getting there never seemed worth it to me. I never understood what the big deal was. They’re awesome, but they’re a tiny part of a much larger picture.
If I just needed a quick orgasm, I would rely on porn and a vibrator to get me there quickly. But if that was all I wanted, I would never bother having sex with other people. When I’m having sex with someone, I want it to be an unencumbered journey of exploration with a very specific person. I want no map, no “to do” list, no expectations and no goals. Just all in, focusing on the moment, not on the finish line.
In my mind, the focus on the orgasm rather than everything leading up to it, is like focusing on the wedding but not the marriage – pretty much missing the point.
When I finally figured out that the absence of orgasm was very likely one of the many changes in my body connected to my brain injury, I was almost relieved. But in a culture in which men are trained to win awards, conquer challenges, and be victorious, it’s awfully hard to get guys to accept that an orgasm just didn’t matter. Now I could blame it on my injury, which was totally justifiable and no guy could possibly take personally.
“So, you just don’t have them, at all,” one of my friends asked. “Sometimes it happens, but it’s unusual, and I usually tell lovers that it’s not possible, just because it’s easier, and pretty much true.”
“I’m sorry,” my other friend said.
“Don’t be,” I explained. “It’s great.”
I pretty much don’t have orgasms. I am not alone in that. I have felt guilt, fear and shame around that fact, and I am not alone in that. I have faked it, and I am not alone in that.
Orgasms were always hard to come by for me. But after really learning my body, I could get there, both on my own and with lovers. However, after a car-accident and resulting brain injury, they all but disappeared. And I was, frankly, glad to see them go. As good as they felt for the short time they were happening, the drama and pressure around getting there never seemed worth it to me. I never understood what the big deal was. They’re awesome, but they’re a tiny part of a much larger picture.
If I just needed a quick orgasm, I would rely on porn and a vibrator to get me there quickly. But if that was all I wanted, I would never bother having sex with other people. When I’m having sex with someone, I want it to be an unencumbered journey of exploration with a very specific person. I want no map, no “to do” list, no expectations and no goals. Just all in, focusing on the moment, not on the finish line.
In my mind, the focus on the orgasm rather than everything leading up to it, is like focusing on the wedding but not the marriage – pretty much missing the point.
When I finally figured out that the absence of orgasm was very likely one of the many changes in my body connected to my brain injury, I was almost relieved. But in a culture in which men are trained to win awards, conquer challenges, and be victorious, it’s awfully hard to get guys to accept that an orgasm just didn’t matter. Now I could blame it on my injury, which was totally justifiable and no guy could possibly take personally.
“So, you just don’t have them, at all,” one of my friends asked. “Sometimes it happens, but it’s unusual, and I usually tell lovers that it’s not possible, just because it’s easier, and pretty much true.”
“I’m sorry,” my other friend said.
“Don’t be,” I explained. “It’s great.”
In unison, they both said, “how can that be.” I did my best to explain the performance pressure around having an orgasm. That in many cases, women feel like they have to get there to please the guy, like the guy will feel like a failure if he can’t make you cum. And, of course, we feel like a failure, or like we are flawed and not good enough if we can’t get there. Then the whole focus becomes this one thing, and it’s just too much pressure. Frankly, it’s incredibly hard to have an orgasm under that kind of pressure.
