I lived as a selfless woman for a long time.
Spread thin.
Giving from empty coffers.
Annoyed and irritated that nobody considered what I was going through. Still doing what I always did, and getting what I always got.
Nobody forced me to be her. That was on me.
I could say it was because I was so good, but that’s not true. It was an adaptation. It’s how I survived in the culture I grew up in.
Back then, I was also selfless with my body. And with whom I shared it. So, of course, I attracted men who could “get ’er done.”
Men who knew how to fix. Who could hit the nail on the head, promise orgasms, and deliver. The kind of men who measured their worth by what they did rather than who they were.
Sounds like a match made in proverbial heaven: the selfless woman and the endlessly capable man.
She gives. He delivers. Everybody wins, right?
Except it’s a myth.
She fakes want. He fakes ease.
And if you’ve ever had performance sex… well, you know how it feels… if you feel anything at all.
Performance gets applause.
Selfless women get praised.
Capable men get admired.
But praise isn’t intimacy. And admiration isn’t fulfilling.
Performing pleasure leaves you hollow. At least it did for me.
I didn’t even notice when I started to wither. Until one day, I snapped out of it long enough to realize I couldn’t remember the last time it really felt good.
My sex-mates were starving too, just differently.
All that pressure to deliver. To handle it. Pretending never to struggle or second-guess.
Performing confidence while being crushed under the weight of not measuring up. Sex became another project to manage. A problem to solve. A box to tick.
Two people going through the motions. Totally convinced pleasure was happening because nobody complained.
But sex can be empty even when orgasms happen on cue.
I was teaching my body that pleasure was something to be endured.
What the fuck is that?
Sex is a communal experience. Well, unless you’re masturbating, because sex for one, is still sex. But for the sake of this discussion, we’re talking about sex with another person(s). And that shouldn’t feel lonely.
But sometimes it does.
Your body feels like a borrowed thing that you share with someone who can’t see you, because you’re hiding in some faraway place within yourself.
And if you’re not careful, you start to resent your orgasms, like I did.
Why does a body that cannot lie respond to fakeness anyway?
Well, as I’ve said a gazillion times before: sometimes an orgasm is just a response to stimulation. Not proof that pleasure is happening.
I’m living proof of that.
You can come hard. And still feel empty.
You can have sex that “should” be good. And still feel like you aren’t in the room.
Your body can writhe, moan, and make it to the promised land. Without you.
That’s the cost.
Performing pleasure is expensive.
Everybody loses. Them, and you.
I get into this dynamic in this weeks episode. Listen here (up there 👆🏾) or on your favorite platform.
