Today’s guest blog spoke to me. It’s written by the fabulous Muya, who is here for the very first time to ask the question: why have I never had an orgasm with a man? The experiences she describes, and the chase she embarks on, is something that resonates with me deeply – I hope it resonates with some of you lot too.
Why have I never had an orgasm with a man?
I always thought there was nothing special about sex. I would say to my friends ‘it’s just sex’. But the sex they described sounded different from my first time. My first time didn’t feel like sex, if sex had an actual feeling.
I had read in millions of books (in my opinion, overrated ones) about how sex felt, as if it had a mystical power. In the middle of the book, when both leads couldn’t stand the growing attraction between them, when a kiss wasn’t enough, they would cross the line they had drawn and have steamy, hot, unforgettable sex. It lasted well over two pages. Sex, shag, fuck, making love, procreation, consummation. I wanted to experience it so desperately. I wanted the intimacy it brought, the happy ending.
Why are love and sex so often confused?
I still remember my first, who doesn’t? But how many of us enjoyed our first time? How many of us hated it? How many, like myself, had certain expectations?
I didn’t enjoy my first time and I can’t seem to forget about it. But this isn’t about him. Nope. This is about why I can’t reach an orgasm with a man – any man really.
I still confuse sex and love. I see them as the same thing. I am still young and foolish.
But let me tell you something I didn’t read from my books: love and sex are often confused because many of us crave the kind of intimacy sex brings. The kind that leaves you aching even after everything.
I still remember my first because it happened in under thirty minutes. We had no preparation, just a casual chat about it, then a place and time and somehow the deal was done. Somehow I found myself lying down and moaning to his humping.
I’m not a man-hater, I promise.
Even after the horrible sex, I was attached to the sentimentality of it. The ceremony of giving myself to someone. Yes, very dramatic, I know.
I craved the closeness, craved the love I didn’t feel for him as he pushed in and out. Something we didn’t talk about often, but I swear, even without the shivers and kisses… I felt loved. I was in love. Hard and fast. I was in love with our horrible sex and… you can guess what happened next. I was young and foolish and attached to the wrong person just because he was there at the time.
After getting over my first, I moved on to the next. My orgasm became a priority. I chased my own pleasure, my own desires. I wanted to experience what I didn’t get that first time. I wanted what I read from those books at night. The ones that filled my world with big expectations (I couldn’t stand the bare minimum). I wanted a prince and a sex god all rolled up into one.
Despite what I thought I wanted, it was easier to find a distraction. Someone or something that I didn’t like enough or care for. I was fighting to stay over the edge, fighting my deep-rooted trauma whose antidote was probably not shagging. I was starving for every position imaginable, every orgasm worth experiencing.
Yet it almost felt like I was chasing a dream and each time I reached the peak, the feeling would evaporate and disappear. What was wrong? Was I doing wrong? My orgasm was the priority, so what was the problem?
Love.
Maybe you haven’t guessed it yet. I wanted to be loved.
To be loved without any commitment to have sex. I didn’t realise it but I wanted to feel something, anything about the person I was butt-naked with. Even as he grabbed hold of my legs, placing them on both sides of his shoulders. He would go in gentle at first as I moaned, then increase his pace, taking hold of my thighs. I would moan, then scream, wet and exalted.
But even after we were done and he had cum I still wanted him close. I went back and forth thinking. Shifting blame: he was definitely doing something wrong, something isn’t right with the way he is touching me. His kiss felt too slimy, his size isn’t great, he doesn’t like giving head, he doesn’t know which finger to use, he doesn’t know how to do it right – I thought it was that simple. But it wasn’t.
It’s hard to rely on someone else to feel seen. What happens to seeing yourself? What are you so insecure about that you have to compensate for a lack of love with sex?
That was exactly how I felt, how it felt. I didn’t know which word to use whenever it happened but I know that was what I felt.
Maybe I am still young and foolish and I can’t see straight and I still can’t have an orgasm yet. But I know that I want to be loved. Perfectly or imperfectly, loved so that it feels real. More real than my fake orgasms.
What I am trying to say is, Love Me.