So it's 11:30 on a Friday night and you are blissfully alone, or so you'd like to imagine, with no pressing plans, so you tell yourself, and nothing to keep you from having the peace you've been striving for all week, or so you say. After the second bowl of ice-cream which you promise yourself you will exercise off the following morning, you succumb to the hum of the television; remote all set, covers tucked just so, pillows and comfy sweats your silent companions.
You flip through old Woody Allen movies from 1983 and Men in Black... nothing, nothing... you realize yes, yes you do get all of those wonderful movie channels in the higher numbers.
Showtime, even! Wait, what's this? Cancun Play Time - ? Never heard of it. Let's see.... oh.... hmmmmmm. Late night, Friday night porn peddled by the movie channels for your viewing pleasure. You decide once and for all to get over yourself and watch the thing - no one is around, you're tired, what's all the fuss about anyway? You consider it to be educational, a sort of homework.
They look lovely, actually, the lovers on the screen; nothing sadistic or fetish oriented in any way. She's beautiful, not underage, seems to be really enjoying herself. Quite enjoying herself, really. Your insecurities pop up quickly, furiously, you think, "why IS she enjoying herself that much? Why is she screaming that way? I've NEVER screamed that way?" Suddenly it's all too much; the silky brunette on the screen appearing to have 30 or 40 mind-shattering orgasms which leave her in a perspiration-lathered trance and you lay there, all knitted brow and consternation, wondering where your mind-shattering orgasms may be. Perhaps they're under the bed.
The next time you have sex you decide to fake it, to act like the woman in your Friday night featurette. "Wow," your laboring, heavy-breathing handsome, sexy partner says huskily in your ear, "Youre REALLY into this right now, aren't you?" "Yea, ohhhhhhh, yea, baby, its soooooo good" you aren't quite CHEESY, but you really slather on the good attitude, after all, that woman on the program was SCREAMING for criminy sake.
You notice, in the corner of your brain that is still hanging out with ice cream and pajamas watching yourself in bed, that the more you moan, the better the sex actually becomes.
You spoon another little ladle of mint chocolate chip to your witnessing self and proceed in this vein.
"YEA!," You say,,,, "OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOD!" As he becomes heartened, encouraged, and, finally, extremely happy and ridiculously aroused feeling that he is pleasuring you this much.... suddenly you are wetter, looser emotionally and more vulnerable, intimate and excited in bed than you've ever been in your life. "This is amazing!" Your observing self says to herself, "YEA!" Your climaxing self agrees.
And, after not quite 30 but without question one and possibly two seriously mind-shattering orgasms, you are moist from head to toe and your man smiles at you, spent, satisfied, but something more as well. "You really seem happy, I love it!"
Hmmmm. You lay there like a wet noodle, exhausted, pondering. Fake it till you make it. Maybe there is something to all of these vocal gymnastics after all - it's like getting into character, leaving your brainy self behind, going primal, letting loose, placing yourself in the space of being able to relax, get into it, enjoy it.
More food for thought.
"YEAAAAA!"