I’ve Never Had An Orgasm


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I've Never Had An Orgasm

I straddled, well, I wish I could say it was a man, but it was a body pillow and a vibrator, which I’ve found is sometimes better. I moved my body to the rhythm I’d deemed acceptable against these inanimate objects, and a feeling unlike any other started to build.

Don’t think about it, I told myself.

I tried to imagine whatever Fabio, or Christian Grey, or random pornstar was on the agenda that day and ultimately clear my mind. I knew better to tell myself this was it, but by simply knowing it was possible, I was already thinking too much. The feeling, built, and built, and suddenly, it just faded away rather than catapulting further into the explosion I knew was *supposed* to happen.

The orgasm that got away. Or rather, another orgasm that got away. You see, I’m about to admit something I don’t like to talk about. I’ve never had an orgasm. I know what you’re thinking, because it’s the same conversation I’ve had with every other person I begrudgingly and regrettably share this information with.


No, never.

“Not even by yourself?”

I think I just illustrated to you that when I say never, I do in fact mean not even by myself.

“Have you tried watching porn?”


“Have you used a vibrator? A showerhead?”

Yes. Yes.

“Have you…?”

Yes. If you can conceivably think about it, I’ve probably tried it. Friends will go on to tell me that maybe I just haven’t met the right guy. Or I need to explore my body. I’m too in my head. Or “the double standard effects a lot of women like that.” But simply put, there’s really no reason for it. I didn’t know about the double standard until years after I was having sex. I masturbate pretty regularly. And I’m not sure “the right guy” will make a difference at this point. And we all know these are just words to try to close out the conversation but they all mean the same thing: “Good God, I’m glad I’m not you.”

The worst thing about having no orgasms — besides uhh, not having orgasms — is telling people you don’t have orgasms. Other women are all the same. They pity you and guilt you at the same time. They ask you how you even like having sex if you don’t have orgasms, and you have to defend your vagina’s honor as you explain it still feels good, just not as good as it could. Women offer terrible advice as they tell you that you’re somehow both not trying hard enough while simultaneously thinking too much about it, thus trying too hard. What the fuck does that even mean? How do you stop thinking about something, anyway.? Don’t think about a pink elephant right now.


And then there’s telling the men you sleep with, who either view you as a challenge or a lost cause. Neither is great. Dudes who’ve known you for varying lengths of time expect you to be able to do it the first time you’re with them, because they’re “really good.” They pull out weird tricks, and try and try, and while I appreciate the effort, at the end of the day, you know it’s just not going to happen, and it’s humiliating when you have to tell them to stop. It’s a weird, awful type of pressure where you feel guilty because their egos might be bruised because of your “affliction.”

Worse than them is the guys who don’t care at all. To them, if the goal isn’t “O face,” they don’t even put forth any effort to make sure you enjoy what you’re capable of enjoying. As for the guys in between? When they ask you “if you came,” it’s almost laughable that they thought that might be a legitimate possibility.

Simply put, though, it sucks. I obviously want this feeling, at least just to know what it’s like, and it makes me sad that I know better than to ever expect it in a sexual encounter on my own or with a partner. But the truth is, I haven’t quite accepted that it will never happen for me, and I’m not sure which scenario is worse: holding out hope for something that may never come, or living my life knowing that there’s something really incredible out there that everyone gets to experience except me.

For now, all I’ll say is this. If you’re one of the unlucky ones who’s never gotten there, know you’re not alone. I’ve talked to tons of friends who have shared in my experience, and while it sucks, don’t feel like you’re the only one, because solidarity makes it more tolerable. And if you ever get there, let me borrow your boyfriend.

Image via Shutterstock


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