I was once in three-year charade disguised as a relationship. Three years of pretending that my boyfriend wasn’t the redneck he most definitely was. Three years of faking the best orgasms of my life. As you can imagine, it was quite the waste of time.
Because indeed, he was a Coors Light drinking, Duck Dynasty watching, Oklahoma country boy. Not knocking the cowboy thing, ladies, but it’s not for me.
The hottest part of our relationship was the sex scenes on Game of Thrones come Sunday night. Thanks HBO, for keeping alive the little libido I had left.
About a year into faking my orgasms, I grew tired of the effort. I felt like a cheesy stereotype, and was unfairly hostile towards my partner for not realizing how unsatisfied I was. I didn’t want to fake my orgasms anymore. But it wasn’t that simple.