Deconstructing the Office: Fakeout

So this was the time I learned a little something new about the male orgasm. Or, more specifically, lack thereof. I suppose it’s not the STRANGEST thing in the world that guys fake too. But, given that I thought coming was one of the simplest things to get a guy to do, I was pretty baffled and confused that, sometimes, even a guy has to fake it.

So, why is this so strange that men could, and do, fake it? Women fake orgasms all the time, apparently. So often that it’s a joke in every bad sitcom, and a required line in every shitty Lifetime Television script. It's an interesting subject, whether faked or not, this whole female orgasm thing. For me, I've got two kinds of orgasm on my vaginal menu: clitoral, and internal. I didn't always have such a vast and thorough understanding of my nether regions. I used to know that, yeah, penetration feels awesome, but in my naivite I though the only way to achieve that peak of ultimate feely-goodness had to be all about the clit. And oral is super hard to get right, and even when its perfect and I’m relaxed and my mind shuts up, it takes a solid 10 minutes. Minimum. (Like, guys, you can’t make a girl orgasm in 2 minutes. You can’t. You can’t. I mean, I appreciate the effort you put in. And inwardly feel sorry for your silly delusion yet staunch belief of the words of girls who have told you that you have done so for them. But those girls are either too nice, too full of shit, or don’t know what an orgasm is.) Therefore I used to fake a lot when I was a young lass, whether because I didn’t know how to come through sex yet, or because I felt so bad the guy was working so hard for so long and I didn’t want his jaw to either lock up forever or fall off into my crotch.

But over time I learned that I could also come by internal stimulation, what it felt like to do so, and how to relax and tap into it. Or rather, be tapped into it. The point is, once I understood orgasm and satisfaction outside the clitoral realm, I never faked again. Unless out of necessity- i.e., the condom is killing me, or this guy doesn't understand angles, or I'm over it, or I have places to be, so could someone please get the hook for this guy? In those instances, I have no problem saying, "Yes, I came, now I want yours", or something along those lines to wrap it up. Complete with simulating the orgasm pulsing, which is sort of like doing kegels on a guys wang. But, it was easy to resort to faking in my early years (approx. ages 19-23) which was the period after I'd had my first clitoral orgasm via oral, but before this new level of understanding my vag. Because, let's be honest- having a partner successfully get you to clitoral orgasm is like capturing an elusive unicorn. Out of all the men I've been with, an exact handful have been able to bring me to that precipice and back. And it's glorious, of course, because those 10-15 (ugh, even 20-25) minutes of build-up lead to some serious, full-body, writhing-for-30-seconds intense payoff. However, for all the valiant soldiers who fell to the wayside, some not even close to bringing me to heaven, others to the 10 yard line but then failing: it sucked. Its super stressful, for both myself and the said guy('s jaw.) For me, all I can think of during is how long I'm taking, how many more directions can I give him, oh my god I'm taking FOREVER. Basically I can't mentally relax and enjoy it because I keep apologizing and hating myself for having such finnicky lady parts. And the guy is probably thinking every single thought I'm thinking, but is additionally burdened with an ever-tiring mandible that can chew through a 24-oz steak but doesn't have the stamina to lightly lick me into submission.

So. To sum up, I've faked. More during oral, occasionally during sex, and not really anymore nowadays. Men, however, do not have vaginas. The have a dick, and a brain, that is much more easily satiated and not nearly as complex as the ever-emotional lady parts. Despite this, however, men have also been in situations where they have faked. I know, I know, it's so ridiculous, for sooo many reasons. But it happens, and you know what, it's happened to me. With a supposedly very virile co-worker. When I think back on it, he was such a fucking weirdo but at the time, I was 21 and didn't know better and was pretty insulted that he faked. Granted, there are some details to the story that may explain it, which make me feel slightly less disappointed in myself. And it's a relief, because if a 21 year old tight-bod chick can't bring a 29-year old dude to orgasm, it's a serious blow to the ego. Generally speaking, I'd feel the same disappointment in myself with any guy I'm investing sexual energy into. I love making a guy come, and I can't leave him unsatisfied and sleep well at night. (Unless he's fucking terrible, then I couldn't care less.) But this co-worker, let's call him Dominic, was at the time for me a big coup and the fact that these events happened left me sort of shell-shocked, humbled, and in desperate need for a drink and understanding.


SUMMER 2006
Too soon to see the inevitable tragedy looming on the horizon

The price I paid for pursuing an opera performance degree was the bleak, devoid-of-straight-desirable-men, brown brick hell that is SUNY Purchase. Four years of being on an artsy, drugged-out campus drastically changed my taste in guys- hellooooo, hipsters- but luckily, my summers provided brief periods of reprieve. Working in NYC during my breaks was like a dream for me. I've been boy-crazy since the womb, but to be set loose in midtown with all those power execs in suits had my panties dropping so fast it was if they had weights attached. I mean, goddamn. Even now, just typing that, a series of mental images consumes my brain for several minutes. There's just something about a man in a great suit, or even a button down with dress pants. He doesn't need to be super fit or good-looking; that Manhattan-corporate-man uniform instantly transforms even the saddest-looking specimen into a demigod. Which, praise Buddah, my office had plenty of. Maybe my place of employ wasn't exactly crawling with hotties; namely, guys my age. But at the end of the day it's not like that mattered. The mere fact that I was working at a relatively large corporation surrounded by extremely hetero men that outnumbered the women, was enough. I repeat: arts college, hipsters. It was sort of comparable to not going shopping for four years, then being unleashed, as a 20 year old female, into a Forever 21 flagship store. Seriously. I needed to remind myself to breathe and not go out and buy all the merchandise at once just because it looked good on the hanger. Because Forever 21, even though lots of their stuff looks real cute, and their selection is huge, is not exactly known for quality products. You need to do a few laps round the store, really look at things first without even touching them, imagine if they fit into your wardrobe, etc. So, as in that analogy, in life I too needed to remind myself to breathe and not flirt with/sleep with all the merchandise.

Over the few years I worked in this infamous midtown office, I did wind up dating a few of my co-workers, but my only regret was my involvement with Dominic. For a variety of reasons, but mostly owing to the fact that he told basically all our coworkers we slept together (only he adorned this truth with lots of douchey lies thrown in). Yes, he might have also secretly been gay, but oddly enough I didn't care about that at all because shit son, I love the gays. One of my goals in life is to be a gay icon, should opera not pan out. Not that I really believed he was anything other than super straight, but I got tons of slack from a female coworker who had heard his gossip. To quote her, "Elena. He goes to Fire Island every weekend without his girlfriend. You do know what that means...right?" So if nothing else was gained from the whole experience, there were three valuable lessons I learned from him. One, gays apparently go to Fire Island. Two, men of all shapes, sizes, and ages, have faked/do fake orgasm. And three, hoo boy, do men love to talk- ladies, don't be fooled. They will run their mouths and you will not come out of it looking good.

Personally, I had no problem keeping our flirting, and eventual intimacy, quiet. For one thing, my dad worked in this office and was one of the top guys, so for multiple reasons I did not want word getting around and hitting his ears. For another, the women in this office all hated me and already spent their time talking shit behind my back. The last thing I needed was to give them real, legit proof that they were, at least on a small scale, right that I slept around. And for a third reason, I kinda like having a secret sometimes. Lure of the forbidden, illicit affair, all that crap. It can be fun and a big turn-on, especially knowing that the person it involves is mere cubicles away from you. And when you say, "Good morning" to them, you can say so much more with your eyes and they'll know exactly what those things are. So despite the fact that this story did not have the happiest of endings (or for him, any ending) it was actually very fun at first.

Our involvement began innocently enough. That summer, when I was about to turn 21, I was working with the contracts department. My station to proof-read, copy, and bind contracts took up way too much space for the little wing that this department was allotted, so I was forced to do my work on the counter right in front of his cubicle. Although this meant spending countless hours standing pretty much in front of his face, it still took me awhile to even talk to him. Not because my work was so endlessly fascinating- it was for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I didn't think of talking to him. I wasn't even interested in or attracted to him at first. But, the more time I spent there the more I took notice of him. His tan, golden skin that set off his sparkling blue-green eyes, the way they'd crinkle up whenever he'd smile, the way you could see just how fit he was under his shirts. The problem that came with this realization led to the second reason I didn't talk to him. I can be very, very shy around men I find attractive. Shy to the point where I come off mentally challenged and have rosacea from blushing non-stop. As my desire to interact with him gradually increased, it eventually trumped my awkwardness and I relaxed and normal Elena started to take over. It also didn't hurt that he proved to be very friendly and easy-going. However, after a couple of weeks of becoming friends, I still couldn't tell if he was interested in me. Not that it really mattered, but it was a slight annoyance that I couldn't get a clear read- its the emotional equivalent of standing on an ice floe, all shaky without solid grounding under your feet. But, I liked having a good-looking guy, relatively close to my age, to talk to and look at for the bulk of my workday. We'd joke, we'd play stupid pranks- I'd hide his cheerios box, he'd steal my paper clips- etc. If nothing else, it certainly helped the time pass and beat looking at the clock waiting for 5 p.m.. Besides, the contracting department consisted of me, two bitter middle-aged women and one extremely introverted gay guy, so Dominic's friendship was my only connection to lively social interaction.

By the time my birthday came around, we had become friendly enough that he joined the group that went out after work to help me celebrate my 21st. However, as opposed to when the two of us were in the office, here at the bar he was acting way more reserved than he had ever been at work, and barely talked to me. When he left after having only one drink, I felt kind of...rejected. After doing some casual questioning, it turned out he had a pretty serious girlfriend, which I thought explained everything. Why he wasn't blatantly open if he was interested in me, why he only had one drink and left, why he would be so held back when other coworkers who knew his deal were around. This information made me neither more nor less anything towards him; I liked the guy, period. So I changed nothing in my behavior towards and/or around him, and as far as I knew, we were simply friends. We started emailing each other jokes and bullshit chitchat during our days, and when lunch plans for a group of us fell through, he re-scheduled with me via email... for just the two of us. I was confused; my eyebrows raised internally and my dormant radar lit up slightly. Was this a sign that he wanted something more? Why else would he only invite me? I didn't want to assume anything or jump to any conclusions, especially since he really did seem committed to whoever this girlfriend was, judging by his consistently good behavior. However, when lunch got switched to drinks after work, still for just the two of us, I couldn't help but be slightly suspicious. And maybe a little excited.

We met at a sports bar his friend owned, and let's just say... he was not behaving now. It wasn't blatant, at first. The casual hug hello, the flirting- none of it set off any alarms. But man, he was throwing out these vibes, this energy that was saying way more than his words. And then, midway through his first beer, his body language spilled over into his actual language. He said he was extremely attracted to me, from the very first time he saw me, and had been forcing himself to control himself from day one because of the complicated circumstances at work (Read: my dad, liability, his possibly getting fired, my dad again.) He did not list his relationship as a reason he didn't act on his feelings. I don't know if he knew that I knew he had a girlfriend or not, but judging by what was happening I had to assume he didn't. And I didn't like that, him thinking he was getting away with withholding the whole truth and fooling me. I'm not a fool, sometimes, so I called him out on it. To my surprise, he was honest and fully confessed to being in a relationship, but he kept trying to persuade me to give in: "You know how much fun this could be... you don't want to look back on this with regret... all I'm saying is, if you want this to happen, it can happen." And so on. I looked at him, seated across from me in the booth, his face so expectant and eyebrows lifted, smiling, and holding my hands on the table. He was dancing in his seat a little to the sexy music that was playing, and somehow he was managing to simultaneously look so innocent, yet so cocky and sure I'd succumb to his charms. It made me feel like throwing up. Or maybe that's just me now, knowing what I know, overshadowing how I actually felt. Regardless, I turned him down. I said I wasn't comfortable getting involved not just with a coworker, but one who had a girlfriend of two years.

Okay, okay. I turned him down THAT night.

We hung out again, again for drinks after work, and the horny fool that I guess I really am, gave in. What can I say, I like to have sex and I like it more when I'm actually attracted to the guy. To me, this was akin to the "I win!" feeling. Here was a guy I had secretly crushed on for months, who as it turned out felt the same about me, and bam, nailed him. Literally. Well, not yet. We only made out and fooled around a few times, in cabs and back rooms of bars and anywhere else we could, but it wasn't until the following winter of 2006 that we actually had sex. Atop a shiny conference room table of his office (which, location-wise, made for an awesome story, but that was about as remarkable as it got. Seriously. Nothing else to say about that night.) Unfortunately, the story doesn't end here, or even after the winter when we did the deed. It should have been the end, since following the new year he got engaged, and I realized I was bored of him. But it wouldn't be an Elena story if it had anything remotely resembling a happy and sensible ending.


SUMMER 2007
When it all went wrong, and ended horribly

So, to catch up: summer of 2006 we became friends, wound up becoming slightly more. Summer break ended, I went back to school, that was it until winter break 2006. I came back to the office to work, and upon hearing I was back, Dominic emailed me within 3 hours of my first day and we resumed whatever this thing was. We did the damn thing on a smooth-as-glass tabletop, and after my break ended and I left for school, again, all communication ceased. Summer 2007 arrived, another break, another few months returned to work, and there I was, back at the office. And there he wasn't.

He was out on a jobsite, so no longer in the office nor someone I'd see on the daily. But without fail, he contacted me almost immediately on my first day, and we made plans to catch up. Eh. I was kind of over it. The sex hadn't really left much of an impression (let the penis size jokes ensue), and definitely not enough to explore it further. And the initial thrill, that whole rush of the forbidden and having a secret, crushing-on-some-unattainable-dude thing, had faded. It had dissolved into something that felt...routine. Which is slightly ridiculous to say, considering that we had hung out maybe seven or eight times, and only had sex once. But the whole "I'm back at work, he emails me, we get drinks, we make out" song-and-dance was old news. It had become, to use a work metaphor, like I was clocking in hours, rather than that enthusiastic rush filled with happily humming along through the day. I wasn't bummed out by this. I was surprised it had gone on this long. Lovin' and leavin', that was my MO back then and Dominic's number was up. Besides, the guy had freaking set the date for his wedding so this was for the best. But I suppose I had to see him one more time, just to make sure. And, whatever. It was a weekday and I was already in the city, so eh, why not.

We skipped the bar this time. Instead, I met him at his jobsite office in the late afternoon hours of a Thursday when everyone else had left for day. Sunlight was streaming in pre-sunset gold through the windows, and I was sitting naked in his swivel chair wearing only his tie and my cowgirl hat. We proceeded to do it right there, but after either 15 seconds or about 10 thrusts into it, give or take, he pulled out entirely, muttering something about "this stupid condom." I caught a quick glimpse at his crotchal region and saw not only was it limp, but there was also that tell-tale white stuff at the end of the condom. I figured, sweet, that was quick, painless, and shit, I’ll probably even beat the rush hour crowds home. He ran out of the room to the bathroom, still feigning condom-blame, and not realizing I had figured anything out. I stayed seated, laughing in my head. A lot. Mostly at myself for having sex with him again, even though I knew going into it this time I wasn't really into it, but also at his poor little man balls. 15 seconds. I mean, damn. But did he actually come? I couldn’t be sure. The signs seemed to have been there but that couldn’t be possible…could it?

He came back in the room after a couple of minutes, with a new condom (and a new boner), and we recommenced bumping uglies. Welp, so much for getting out of here early. About half an hour later, he now had me bent over a small, blueprint-covered desk. I was about as into it as I am when I bind contracts; if I had been wearing a watch, I'd have been checking it. And you know it's bad when you actually start to read the blueprints in front of your face, while throwing in the obligatory sound effects for him every few seconds. It's a good thing I had my back to him, because I doubt my facial expression and drumming fingers would have helped him speed up the process. But as if all this wasn't bad enough, he had started shouting and carrying on that he's "going to come", but not actually doing it. Okay, now, hold on, here's the thing about that. I used to always say I hated when guys made a big, vocal show about how they're about to come, and it is immediate grounds for me making fun of you forever, but that's no longer entirely accurate. I've recently concluded it's all in the delivery (no pun intended.) I've had guys whisper "I'm gonna come" in my ear, or somehow manage to make it really sexy, and turn me on. Dominic, however, is a loser, and failed miserably at everything. It started with the fifteen solid minutes of loudly-voiced announcements that he was going to come. This in itself was enough to turn my vagina into the Sahara, but then, in between shouting it over and over again, he would make little high-pitched, nasal yelps, which was just... confusing. He sounded like a bitch Pomeranian. That took doggy-style to a new and literal level I never wanted to, nor want to ever again, experience. With every second ticking by, with every shout and yelp and thrust, all I could think was, oh dear god in heaven, I just want to go home. Can he wrap this up already, like he's been promising to do for the last quarter hour of my life?! Finally, he did the jerk-stiff/collapse thing, accompanied by whiny moans, and laid on top of me for a few moments (I had already started eyeballing the floor for my underwear so I could get the hell outta there without delay). But then, after he pulled out, I turned and stood up and saw - he was still hard. Which isn't too unusual, but there was definitely NOTHING in the condom this time around. And that's when it hit me... did I just get faked on?

I must have been. It was my only answer to everything that had just happened. We already know he has no control over his boys, so I'm sure if he can't hold back from coming too quickly, he'd have just as much difficulty summoning his seed. Additionally, that whole final act of him coming was way too overly-dramatic and theatrical to be real. Combine that with the physical evidence, and well, I rest my case.

The second I got out of there, I called my three closest male confidantes to get their expert opinions. And as it turns out, they have all faked an orgasm with a girl at some point, or several points (so now this is a common thing for guys? Strangest trend ever.) But for the most part, as they usually do upon hearing my latest predicaments, they all yelled at me for sleeping with yet another awful guy. After I hung up with the third buddy, and had to acknowledge the consensus that I had indeed been on the receiving end of a fake big O, I felt pretty bummed. And like less of a woman. I wanted to ask Dominic why he had felt the need to fake at all, if he had. I wanted to understand, and damn it, I wanted to immediately eradicate whatever I had done or not done to make him not come. I'm sure if the roles were reversed in this situation, the dude would not be spending the entire night wondering why she had faked on him, mentally consumed by analyzing and exploring the notion that it had even happened to him. He’d be asleep.

The next day at work, I had an email from Dominic, saying “Good-morning!” and blah, blah, blah. I was still irked about the whole thing, and, needing some sort of answer or closure on the mentally ever-pervading issue, called him, and asked him, point-blank, if he had well, fired a blank. He admitted that, while he did come the first time (as I had suspected!), he couldn't manage to come a second time, so yes, round two was faked. He apologized and said, "I'm not like those college guys you date... I can't do it twice in a row, so fast." Excuses, excuses. Cue the eye-roll. But, whatever; I'm glad I'm not the one marrying you.

Of course this whole fakeout fiasco was served with a side of drama, because for whatever reason, Dominic felt the need to stir some up. I had previously mentioned that Dominic took it upon himself to tell the guys at his jobsite about us. Not the truth of us, of course, but more how I was a desperate slut that chased him for half a year, and forced him to sleep with me. Because obviously, that's the only way him and I hooking up could ever have happened, ever. It was hard to hear, especially from a third party who informed me that along with Dominic gossiping non-stop, all the guys at his jobsite now hated me, my name was now "dirt over there", and these guys, who used to be, were no longer my friends. So, all the while when I had been diligently deleting all our emails, texts, phone records, and not telling a soul about us, as per his request, he had been going around claiming to have nude pics of me and that I practically paid him to let me suck him off. I don't like having regrets, and I could very easily say I regretted ever even talking to Dominic. But there were plenty of lessons to be gleaned from an otherwise fruitless situation, though sometimes that still doesn't help me not regret sleeping with him when I was already over it. I mean, I could've avoided the whole second half of this story. But then I would've gone on down this road called life, maybe never knowing that a guy faking it is not only a feasible, but very real thing. And that men have wayyyyy bigger mouths than women, and this probably goes without saying, but they will not be honest about the details. And that gays go to Fire Island. So, there you have it. The silver linings to me not being lined with Dominic's white love juice. But of all these lessons, I have to say, the real moral for me was this: if you're a chick and decide to sleep with a co-worker, at least be wiser than me and have standards. Because with all the things that could go wrong, with all the consequences that action can have, you wanna make damn sure, at the very least, that the sex is worth it.