On Wrestling, Orgasms And Migratory Birds

I have three--count 'em, three--female friends who have actually come during intercourse.

One of them came once. One time. With one guy. Who was never able to make her come again. She now wears black mostly and cries a lot.

One of them has come several different times with several different partners, and has absolutely no idea what differentiates the times when she is able to orgasm from the times when she is not. I have encouraged her to do extensive research on the topic for the good of all womankind, urging her to consider such variables as day of the month (Odd? Even?), local traffic patterns (What was happening, for example, on the GW Bridge?) and any route changes in the flights of various migratory birds (Where was the Speckled Tinamou? The White-collared Swift?).

I think these are all points that are well worth considering. I think, in fact, that there is potential for Nobel-Prize caliber research here, if only my friend would commit to the necessary hours of investigation. She stubbornly insists on keeping her day job. Boo.

The last friend is a Lucky Fucking Bitch who comes whenever she has sex: "I can't explain it. I just come all the time. It's like the guy I'm with can just look at me and--WHOOSH--multiple orgasms. Sometimes like, gosh. Like, five or six? And I'm all, 'Stop it! Stop it! Enough orgasms already!'"

Whenever I'm around this mysteriously blessed friend, I have the urge to rub her belly (for luck), or draw her blood (um...for medical testing).

Anyway, all of this has made me aware of a rather interesting discrepancy.

Whenever I have The Conversation About Sex that I have had with pretty much every boy I have ever dated or slept with, The Conversation goes something like this:

Boy: Yeah, every woman I've ever been with has come during sex.

Me: Really? Every one?

Boy: Yeah. Some have come like three or four times.

Me: Three or four times? Really. Wow.

Boy: Definitely.

I find this peculiar because...though I attended an all-women's college where we practically had entire classes devoted to frank discussion about our sex lives...though my circle of friends is 98% female...AND THOUGH many of my friends have slept with at least enough men to warrant the use of fingers AND toes when tallying...the conversation I have with the vast majority of my female friends and acquaintances in regards to sex, goes like this:

Me: I've never come during sex.

Them: Yeah, me neither.

Me: Have you ever had multiple orgasms?

Them: Yeah. Sure. That time I fucked a Yeti.

Hmmmm.

Clearly, men and women are not communicating effectively on this topic.

*Collective Gasp*

Who knew.

Though I would usually blame this problem entirely on The Boys (and, mostly, in fact, just specifically on M), in this case I have to be fair. This problem is the fault of both The Boys AND...the WWF Wrestling Smackdown.

I think the problem is fairly self-evident. We're faking it, and you believe us.

For any Boys who argue that this is somehow the fault of The Girls for faking it in the first place, here is a short list of other fake things that you don't seem to mind so much:

Lara Croft.

I rest my case.

Need more?

Fine.

Consider things from our perspective.

Girl is making out with Boy. Boy is all excited and sweaty and cute like Boys get.

Boy is asking, "Are you close?"

Girl thinks, "Nowhere near. I'm definitely not going to be able to. It's a Wednesday, and it's raining too loud."

Girl considers telling this to Boy, but then flashes to an image of:

*Boy with his head in his hands after watching "His Team" in the Eastern Conference Finals*

"We fucking HAD 'em. We were playing so well. Fuck, Man. We HAD 'em. And then we fuckin' missed the free throw. I mean.... Fuck. FUCK. I can't eat. I'm too bummed. Man. This blows."

Girl recalls the Entire Weekend of Sulkiness and Dejection that ensued.

Right.

Girl rethinks her strategy and says only, "Baby, that feels so good."

A few minutes pass. Boy asks again, "Are you gonna come for me?"

Girl sees brief mental image of pigs flying. Suppresses a giggle. Considers sharing the joke with Boy.

Girl thinks, "Is it really that big of a deal? I mean, does it really matter to him? After all, as far as intercourse goes, whether I come or not really has very little to with his skills or abilities."

Girl opens her mouth to tell him as much, but--just in time--Girl remembers:

*Boy doing Gleeful, Butt-Shaking Victory Dance, accompanied by Aggressive Pointing*

"You suck! You suck! And you, Sir, suck! I am awesome! Boo-Ya! Yeah! Who's the all-time X-Box Madden Football Champion? Who rocks the X-Box? That's right! That's! Right! I'M THE FUCKIN' MAN!"

Duly noted.

Girl says instead, "Yes, Baby. I'm almost there."

Girl then worries, "But will he know I'm faking it?"

Flash to:

Boy's facial expressions veering sharply towards joy as he screams, "Give him the Piledriver! Piledrive Him! Yes!!! ...Awesome!" while watching The Undertaker take on Macho Man Randy Savage.

Flash to:

"Man, the guy at the karaoke place said I sounded just like Bon Jovi."

Flash to:

"Happy Valentine's Day! Cute, right? The purple elephant on the front reminded me of you. Like it?"

Flash to:

"No way. Her boobs are REAL."

Hmmm.

Girl knows what she must do. She clears her throat to obtain maximum Steamy Phone-Sex Voice volume, gathers her wits about her, and begins to do her best impersonation of a peroxided blonde whose name is, "Tyffanii--that's with two "i's" and a "y" (*Giggle*)."

Afterward, Boy, beaming, gloats, "You really came hard, huh?"

Girl, slyly, reaching for her vibrator: "MMMMmmm. Uh-huh. Like three or four times."

Boy replies, "Whoa."

Boy thinks, "Boo-yah."

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd scene.

So. There. The truth is out.

And if you want to know how to really make us come, I can say only this:

Speckled Tinamou, Boys.

Either that, or buy her a Roman Ab Machine.