The lights were dim in his Brooklyn apartment; two glasses of white wine danced with a tangy crispness past my lips. As he hoisted me over his shoulders, it was all too easy to erupt into a rippling fit of giggles and let him carry me into his bedroom. His touch was soft but commanding, and I could feel myself bending and conforming to his every move. My back arched as he slid a hand behind it, my fingers found his in the dark.
Every new partner brings with them unexpected pleasures and surprises—I’m certainly guilty of picking up a few tricks from old boyfriends along the way. We become collections of other people’s caresses, amalgamations of the embraces we receive. But with every touch, every gesture that makes you say, “ooh,” there’s often one that evokes its antithesis; “ew.”
Back in his bedroom, I thought I might finally discover if the flirting, banter and dates would coalesce into the elusive revelation that this might actually work. After all, he was tall, blonde, and a doctor (be still, my Jewish heart).
And then, as promisingly as it began, it ended as he looked me in the eye and delivered the following words: “Come on, baby, come for me.” Like a traffic jam on 8th Avenue, with cabbies hurling insults at each other, and women screeching in righteous indignation about missed appointments, my romantic evening came to an undignified close.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been ordered to climax on command: There was the oh-so-cocky PR guy (who also liked to add an energetic “COME ON!” to his big finish), the well-meaning but painfully dull Wall Street-er, and more. And, I doubt it will be the last.
There are a multitude of reasons why this phenomenon irks me. And before I hear a rebuttal, no, I do not accept the logic that these men are simply so engrossed in love-making that all they want is for me to experience the same pleasure that is imminently approaching for them.
If you care about my orgasm, you will work to achieve it, not order it around. It is not a dog who is having such a good time at the park that it won’t leave. It is not a petulant toddler who throws a tantrum when her mom suggests vacating the toy store. Simply put, stop telling me to come.
I’ll unpack this further: First, there is the assumption that I am able to reach orgasm spontaneously, with reckless abandon. Like I can clap my hands and say, “Thy will be done!” Sadly, I cannot. Though that would make slow days at the office a little more colorful. But alas, your beseeching me to do so alone is not enough to get the job done.
The next point with which I take issue is the “for me” part of the request. Perhaps more offensive than the notion of the “clap on, clap off orgasm,” I resent so deeply when a man even implies that my climax is something I do for him. I find myself thinking, “I wore this push-up bra for you. I got this bikini wax for you. This is for me. I’ll do it on my terms, and you’ll damn well help me get there.”
In all likelihood, many women might find it provocative, adding to the dirty-talking ambiance of the moment. Some men probably think I’ll find it arousing, romantic even, that they want to climax simultaneously. But what could be less sexy, more jarringly disruptive than a partner whose idea of romance is built on a glorified “honey do” list for your orgasm?
And so I, for one, am here to assure any potential bedmate that if you insist on telling me to come, you’ll soon be watching me go.
Thoughts? Tweet us @litdarling.
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