By Annie Lord
I was in the park with a friend of mine who was telling me about the sex she’d had at a festival the weekend before. “He came as well, actually,” she added at the end of the story.
“Oh, nice,” I said, and then I laughed because I couldn’t remember when it became a thing to comment on men coming. But then, maybe men finishing is less of a given than it used to be. At least, it seems to be.
“I’ve seen the greatest cocks of our generation destroyed by SSRIs,” read one tweet that was being screengrabbed by a lot of my friends. If you don’t get the joke—and, please, it’s very much a joke—SSRIs are selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (such as Prozac, Lexapro, and Zoloft), which can help with feelings of anxiety and depression, one side effect being that they can reduce people’s libido and ability to orgasm. Of course, it’s good that men are taking measures to look after their mental health, and often when people are on SSRIs, they can work around the side effects to still climax. Maybe alcohol is to blame. After all, being drunk—which people tend to be when they’re having casual sex—doesn’t help. Nor does the emphasis we place on performance, something we’re more guilty of than we think.
My friend and I chatted for a while about all this, about men not coming as much as they used to, and why that might be. Or we did, until I pointed out that we were being hypocritical. Both of us have complained in the past about how men are really set on making you come. You can tell it’s mainly to prop up their own ego rather than for your pleasure, and it makes you feel pressured and guilty when you can’t. We’ve pointed out to men we’ve had sex with that we don’t have sex to orgasm, but for other things: pleasure, yes, but pleasure in a more general sense; the kind of smudgy oblivion where you forget yourself. And yet there we were, doing the very thing we hated: focusing solely on orgasm.
“Although someone needs to come, so there’s a natural end to sex,” my friend said. “Otherwise it will keep on going forever.”’
“I vote it should be them,” I replied.
“Yeah, sorry, they can’t spend decades centering the male orgasm as the end of sex and then say it’s no longer the end of sex.”
“It’s too late for me,” I said. “My entire sexuality is built around what men want.”
Of course, I wasn’t being serious, but it made me think. What do I want? A while ago I was sleeping with this guy, and I remember him asking the second or third time we slept together, “What do you want?”
I was on top, looking at him, and I remember wanting to hide. Trying to think of an answer to his question was like trying to describe a color I’d never seen before. I was tongue-tied. So I said, “What do you want?” bouncing the question back to him, and then he repeated it back to me a second time so that it felt as though we were playing that stupid game the Chuckle Brothers used to do where they went, “To me, to you,” again and again and again.
On my phone, there’s a screenshot of a quote from the beginning of Want Me by Tracy Clark-Flory. It’s from director Miranda July, and I saved it in my favorites folder because it resonated so much. It reads: “I’m always interested to hear how a woman conceives of herself as a sexual person, because there is really no map for this. Only a series of contradictory and shaming warnings. So whatever any of us comes up with is going to be wholly unique and perhaps a little monstrous—like a creature that has survived multiple attacks yet still walks, still desires.”
And what is left surviving at the end—for me, for the women I know? When we imagine sex, we’re rarely ever ourselves but someone else entirely, because it would be too shameful to be us. Most of us have some sort of praise kink—where you get off on someone telling you you’re good at stuff—presumably because the focus is on someone else’s pleasure. We’re so objectified that we like to become inanimate objects, or think about being watched, followed. Our sexuality slips in between gaps, slides into the spaces in between, clings on.
I don’t know how to describe what I want to another person, to guide them toward it. It’s not a fixed thing: it bends and warps with each person, it shape-shifts. What feels good with someone might feel different with another. Our moods change. Desire emerges in context with someone else. Even if shame didn’t play a part, I’m still not sure I’d be able to answer the question.
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