The first time happened during a heatwave. I was flushed and dizzy, windows wide open, sweat dripping down my back. As a train rumbled past his apartment, I let out a sound—to me, it was a sultry moan of pleasure, but he probably heard something closer to a wounded seabird.

He paused. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I panted. “I just came really hard.”

He looked into my eyes and said the one word every woman dreams of hearing in bed: “K.”

Maybe he believed me, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he glanced down at his dick and gave it an approving nod. And like generations of women before me, I kept going—loudly, dramatically, saying all the right things, arching and sighing like a seasoned actress.

Too bad Stella Adler never taught a class on faking orgasms.

We met when I was trying not to feel anything. He was the quintessential downtown guy: part-time set designer, part-time skater (whatever that meant), always with a guitar, covered in tattoos, and deeply committed to never texting back. He’d remind me the world didn’t revolve around me, promise he was coming over, then fall asleep before showing up.

His apartment was a Chinatown walk-up tucked under the Manhattan Bridge, where the sky felt too close and the air smelled like durian. The place had that classic railroad layout—long and narrow, with bedrooms at either end. His room had a mattress on the floor, a string of fairy lights that never turned off, and peeling posters on the walls. Every time a train passed, the whole building shook like it might collapse.

We didn’t have much in common except our shared fear of intimacy, but I saw him almost every day for three weeks. He had an impressively large dick and the emotional depth of a kitchen sponge, but he rolled perfect joints and kissed like he was trying to erase me. Looking back, with a fully developed brain, I’d never put up with that kind of man-child behavior now. But back then, the bare minimum felt like enough. That’s the thing about being young and terrified of loneliness—you convince yourself scraps are a feast because you’re afraid they’ll leave. Maybe faking it felt safer than asking for more and being rejected.

Some of my friends are Oscar-worthy at faking it—true Meryl Streeps of the bedroom. Let’s call one of them Sue, winner of Best Performance for her role in One Night Stand with Marco the Bartender. (Cue applause.) The problem? Sue got too good. Now she assumes every man expects fireworks, even if he’s done nothing to earn them. Worse, she’s convinced everyone’s faking it too—dishonesty breeds paranoia.

I’ve come to see my terrible acting skills as a blessing. After that first (and only) attempt, honesty became my default. And here’s the thing: honesty tends to create more honesty. I’ve had to actually talk to partners about what we like, dislike, and—most importantly—what we really want.

I’m not here to judge anyone who’s faked it. If I’d been better at it, I might still be doing it. But losing that option forced me to ask hard questions: Why do we fake it? Who are we really fooling—them or ourselves? Is it about protecting fragile egos, or have we internalized the idea that our pleasure is optional, just a performance rather than something we deserve?

Just look at porn. In nearly every scene, the woman is—Porn makes it seem like screaming during sex is as natural and effortless as an orgasm. For many men, it’s become their go-to sex education. The first time someone fingered me, he went at it like a contestant on Chopped with 30 seconds left and no dish prepared. It hurt. He was determined—but clueless. I didn’t say anything, and I still wonder if he ever improved his technique.

Here’s the takeaway—or maybe a wake-up call: Let’s ditch the performance and actually learn, even if that means starting from the basics. (No, Michael, that’s my belly button. Slow down, Joe—jackhammers belong at construction sites.)

Now, if I’m not close to finishing, I say so. No faking, no theatrics, no damage control. If something feels off, I pause. It’s awkward, sure—no one loves being the person who stops to talk mid-sex—but I’d rather that than pretending.

I used to think sex was about being liked. Now I see it as teamwork—two people doing something a little strange together, trying not to mess it up. The best experiences are messy, honest, and sometimes surprisingly rewarding. It’s about taking what’s offered without shame—like walking home barefoot with your shoes in hand and hair in your mouth. Or looking someone in the eye mid-act and saying, “Nope, not even close,” and watching them take it in stride. No exaggeration, no movie magic—just real life.