The Female orgasm looms large in the male psyche. When you think of all the sturm und drang, fear, self-loathing and inadequacy that can be associated with attempting to make a girl cum it all seems sort of ridiculous – especially considering that it’s something pretty easily achieved with just a little bit of rubbing.

Still, all this worship at the altar of female sexuality continues on. It’s never about the man – contrary to what the perceived wisdom might be. I know women love to say that men are clueless and only out for their own pleasure, but it poses the question: “When exactly did it get to be the man’s job to provide the orgasm anyway?”

I mean think about it, why is it that men must achieve their own orgasms, while women are provided with theirs? I’ve always found this to be yet another instance of infantilizing the woman.

Men can only blame themselves for this situation. For generations we have repressed, even nullified women’s sexuality, bashed it into obscurity, so of course now – being men – we must take it upon ourselves to go back in and find it for them. It’s the hero’s journey, all part of the sick, puritanical hoe down.

I was reading an article in the New York Times the other day about some commune dedicated to the female orgasm, in which the director of the fuck farm was quoted as saying, “I don’t think women will really experience freedom until they own their sexuality.”

My first thought was that it’s actually men that will never be free until women own their sexuality. Until they can be responsible for their own orgasm, true sexual liberation can never be achieved.

Too many times have I spent stultifying nights with women where the fucking was all about them. Complicated little Rubik’s cubes that it was my responsibility to figure out…to solve! I’ve pounded my cock to breaking point, contorted my body into excruciating prostrations, pretzle’d my tired fingers up strange, twisted love canals ‘til they were arthritic, pickled my lips in vaginal brine ‘til they swelled like balloons… faster…slower… deeper…softer…harder!

I get exhausted just thinking about it.

And really, in the end what do they have to do? Lay back on satin… on silk…on pillows as they either shudder to completion or let you know you couldn’t cut the mustard. And what did I get out of it? A wet spot on the sheets? An ego boost? A kick in the balls?

As men we’ve been taught to be grateful for sex. We’re supposed to bend at the ankles for a little tail as if we’re being handed some supreme gift from the gods. You break your spine trying to give her a good time and all the ‘thank yous’ fly in the opposite direction. The truth is, there are two bodies being offered up and all risks are shared.

The whole enchilada boils down to ego and worship; for men it’s ego and women – worship. Sex is never an even exchange, someone always pays the price. It’s a frustrating mitigation of something that should be wild, unfettered, animalistic and free – free being the operative word. Yes we should do our best to make each other feel good but we all must be responsible for our own pleasure.

Or in the words of immortal comedian, Richard Pryor: “‘Hey I got mine, get yours!”

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