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Generally, crying during sex is not considered a turn-on. This is particularly true when you’ve been trying to come for the past 10 minutes, rubbing yourself raw while your boyfriend of four years grows increasingly frustrated and probably ― you think ― rather bored of the whole routine.
Considering the contrast between when we started dating and a few years later, I didn’t blame him for being exasperated. In the beginning, the sex was good. Most importantly, it was thoughtless and characterized by a sense of whimsy that made everything fun and easy. Somewhere between years two and four, something in our dynamic shifted. I don’t remember when the change took place, or what precipitated it. But I know that the crying started around the same time that climaxing became more difficult. Things would get steamy, our clothes would come off, and then… nothing.
Cut to me sobbing into his shoulder, whispering apologies as he sighed loudly and felt around the bed for our clothes, asking whether he should “just put the kettle on.” It is not an exaggeration to say that I felt humiliated in these moments.
My boyfriend, a sex-positive 22-year-old with the libido of a particularly horny rabbit, would not be deterred. We tried different positions, new lube, dirty talk, no talk, porn ― everything we could think of that didn’t involve a visit to an actual doctor. (Since I could still finish sometimes, I reasoned that it must be a psychological issue and not a physiological one.)
The paradox was that the more I focused on trying to finish, the less likely it was to happen. I once compared it to the act of desperately pumping an empty sunscreen bottle when you’re already on the beach. He replied that actually, it was more like waiting for someone to cook you dinner, and then telling them you weren’t hungry only after they’d served it.
The worst part was knowing I’d let him down. I could see the self-doubt compounding in his head after every failure. Since we were in an open relationship, I encouraged him to fulfil his sexual needs with other guys and just get the emotional stuff from me.
I half-joked that I could download Tinder and find a lookalike of myself for him to have sex with while I made the relevant noises from a shadowy corner. He didn’t laugh. At the time, I thought I was being selfless, but in retrospect I can see how hurtful the idea actually was.
The more often it didn’t happen, the less I felt like trying, and the worse our relationship got. Not because sex was everything to us, but because it felt like a symptom of something bigger ― a symbol of our miscommunication ― and, later, a sign of our incompatibility. The fact that it was easy enough for him to finish created an imbalance, and our respective frustrations caused a rift between us.
By this time, I’d started to entertain the idea that maybe I didn’t even like or need sex that much. Maybe the reason I didn’t finish was that I wasn’t into it. I already knew that it had nothing to do with my boyfriend, and everything to do with me. The way I saw it, I had lost the fight against my own mind. The thing keeping me from coming was myself.
When we broke up a few months ago, we hadn’t had sex in weeks, deciding implicitly that if we couldn’t finish the race together then it was not worth running in the first place.
When I started seeing someone new, it was with some trepidation. I didn’t want to let him down in the same way. In a very short amount of time, we uncovered an emotional connection that was beyond anything I’d experienced before.
When we first had sex, it didn’t even cross my mind that I might not finish. I was so viscerally attracted to him that our sex barely took place on a physical plane, which meant that ordinary human concerns like climaxing didn’t cross my mind. Until they did.
Picture this, if you will: I’m sitting on top of him, skin glistening as beads of sweat roll down my face and decorate my neck like a pearl necklace. We are connecting in a way that is unburdened, honest, uninhibited. I lean in to kiss him, and as I pull away, he places a hand on the back of my head, pulls my ear to his lips.
“I want you to come first,” he breathes.
Almost immediately, I know that is not going to happen. A slow chill spreads up my body, snaps me out of the moment and into my mind, my old nemesis. I am surprised and dismayed to see my enemy is alive and well, having taken the time off to plan a more spectacular way to ruin my sex life.
Despite this, we continue trying ― me knowing he can finish at any time, imagining how badly he wants to, and him not knowing that at any moment I might burst into tears.
Eventually, I tell him: Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t think it’s going to happen. I resign myself to the inevitable sighing, the disappointed grimace, a consolatory cup of tea. But I was not dealing with a regular person. He told me it was OK, and that he’d still had a really good time.
When I tried to leave, he asked me where I thought I was going, and pulled me back into his embrace. He asked why I was upset, and I rolled my eyes because it was so obvious. He shook his head gently, kissed me deeply.
As we lay naked in each other’s arms, he explained his view on sex to me. The whole point of it, he said, is to reach another level of intimacy, through pleasure. In this case, pleasure is less about one specific moment or destination, and more about the entire journey. An orgasm may fall into the category of pleasure, he explained, but it isn’t the only thing in it. Another way to think about it: An orgasm is the creme brûlée at the end of a five-course meal. Pleasure is the whole damn event — breadsticks to main course to dessert. I wasn’t sure why the men I dated kept comparing sex to food, but I was willing to concede the point.
This was a whole new type of sex positivity, something more mature and profound. His philosophy recognised that there is a vast universe of what is normal when it comes to sexuality and our bodies. What sex “should” look like is particular to each relationship, and even to each experience.
Wanting badly for this new venture to work out, I began talking to friends and colleagues and people from my dance class about orgasms. If you try this, you will be surprised at just how willing most people are to talk about coming ― or not coming.
In a relationship between two men, finishing is usually taken for granted, since the narrative in so much of our media is that sex is done when the man finishes ― and that it’s really easy for this to happen. Accuracy aside, this social conditioning has affected the way we think about sex, and not for the better.
When I spoke to some women about it, they reminded me that it’s hardly unheard of for them not to orgasm. For centuries, women have had to find pleasure in the journey, since it was assumed that for them, finishing was unlikely and not even the point.
One lady, a 40-something divorcée with a penchant for finding the positive side to anything, reminded me that there are multiple ways to have an orgasm, even for men. (Anal orgasms are real, and they’re very intense ― do not underestimate the power of your prostate.)
Now, when my new partner and I have sex, it is with the express understanding that the sex itself is the thing. With the pressure of having to climax removed, I’m free to focus on just having a good time. Instead of feeling isolated after an “unsuccessful” session, I always feel closer to him ― and closer to us.
When we meet in the ethereal plane above the bed, it is with the goal of pleasuring each other. And while I am actually more likely to come now than ever before, I’m happy not to ― and that has made all the difference.
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