Faking the Male Orgasm

"Impossible," you’re thinking. "These guys have the worst fucking research department ever." That’s wrong. We don’t even have a research department. For this article, the review of literature was my own mind. Trying to come up with something everyone would want to read about his week, one image kept popping into my head: my friend Jason Lewis from high school getting fist relief from Sandy “Handjob” Davenport in the Long John Silver’s men’s room. Not really that different from any other day at any other suburban fast food franchise, except for the fact that Jason told me he faked an orgasm.

My first question for him was, “Why?” my second was, “How?” followed by number three, “Why did you need to knock on my bedroom window at 3am to tell me this?” His answers, in the order they were asked, were, “I was getting bored and my break was almost over,” “I just groaned and pulled my pants up,” and finally, "I thought you'd want to know." I asked him, “Didn’t she notice anything missing at the end?” to which he replied, “I don’t know.”

This was the first attempt of a false-ball I’d ever heard of, but it was also the worst. Jason must have failed at convincing Handjob that she had reached act three, and his big “tell” was that he tried to fake it during manual manipulation. This should not be attempted by an amateur. The only way to get away with one in a handjob scenario is to wear a condom during the beef jerky—which is unheard of unless the young lady in question has a semi-dangerous job that frequently results in her getting numerous sores/cuts on her hands, such as a bee-keeper or cheese-grater. But in that case, she would likely volunteer to wear her standard-issue protective gloves to shelter you from her finger-herpes or what-have-you, so again, if you need to fake an orgasm, make sure it’s not during an H.J.

Now a good question is what scenarios would call for an ejacuFAKEtion? Well, for Jason, it was obviously because he needed to get back to the fryer before the hush puppies burned. One situation would be an emergency requiring your immediate attention, such as your car being towed from the motel because you parked in a handicapped spot. In college, I was banging this Korean trumpet player named Brenda Okon because I needed to use her word processor*, when I suddenly realized I had a Psych exam in less than ten minutes. I had to fake it because we had only been going at it for about two hours, so I was nowhere near climax. Another instance—again, in college—was when Jimmy Skullpuff was double-pumping Kelly and Katie, the McAllister twins, when—during sexual small talk—Katie mentioned that her father had a blue-collar job, meaning their family’s income was well below the level accepted by our somewhat-snobbish social group. Not wanting to be ostracized by his peers, Jimmy was forced to make with the fakin’ bacon. Other situations that require a fabricated male orgasm include, but are not limited to: ending “pity-fucks” quickly and painlessly, when having “revenge sex” but not wanting to take a chance on an undesired** pregnancy, or if you need to leave the room because you have to fart.

Now that I have proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that someday, you will need to haunt a vagina with spectral sperm, let’s practice some tried-and-true methods for achieving your underachievement.

The first is if you’re wearing a condom, you can yell out whatever you normally do when you come (popular phrases I’ve heard recently are “Oh my God, Oh my God,” “Shit, shit, oh, shit,” “How are you licking my foot? Oh, that’s the dog,” “Yes! I just remembered you have Ovaltine,” and “Hand me the thesaurus, I’m having trouble expressing what I’m feeling right now.”) and then bound off the bed and yank the rubber off quickly, saying, “I had better tie this in a knot and flush it down the toilet so it can be recycled.” However, if you’re dating either of the Olson Twins, you’ll have to pre-sneak some hot clam chowder in the handy reservoir tip ahead of time, because from what I’ve read of their blogs, they both like to pull the condom off and drain the innards into their mouths. People are really sick these days.

You can use a well-placed compliment to lay the blame squarely on the thighs of your lady friend—“Wow, your vag is so tight and superior that I think it sealed me off and backed my semen up into my bladder. I’d heard that was possible by putting extreme pressure on the prostate during orgasm, but I never thought it would happen as a result of above-average Kegel muscles. Your hair looks nice today."

“I must be dehydrated.” Upon shouting out your intimate catch-phrase (“And they lived happily ever after!” “Timberrrr!” or “Abandon ship!”) blame the lack of physical proof you had a good time on the water cooler breaking down at work or 7-11 running out of Evian. This excuse might not work.

Blow her mind with a hidden “man-secret.” Everyone knows there are hundreds of little things about women that they refuse to reveal and keep under wraps to ensure their continual enslavement of us. For example, did you know there are no urinals in women’s restrooms? Yeah, and they have fucking popsicle machines in there too. Anyways, act completely nonchalant as you pretend to finish and light up a cigarette. When she asks the whereabouts of your nutter butter***, look her in the eye and say, “Guys can always decide whether or not to actually ejaculate during orgasm.” I estimate an 80% failure rate on this one, but it’s worth a shot.

Claim that you already had sex four times today with other chicks and ran out of the gift of life. She’ll believe you, but will probably also try and hit you with something hard and/or sharp. Only use this line if her apartment is lower than the third story so you can make a hasty getaway via the window, and make sure you have exact change for the bus.

*This was in the 90’s, when major universities required students to process words.

**How many actually are? Like two?

***I fully realize this sounds disgusting, but if I just kept saying “spooge,” the article wouldn’t be as scientific.