Faking orgasms is commonly viewed as a female-only trait. It’s understandable, since historically there’s a lot more women that won’t get off during sex than men. Physiologically speaking, the purpose of sex in mankind is reproductive, and a female orgasm is not necessary to create new life. Having said that, there are a lot of other factors involved in a sexual relationship. Ego will always be one of those. Men want to feel they can please a woman. It makes them feel virile and sexually skilled. When they don’t, their self-esteem might drop a bit, and the consequences of that vary greatly. So what did some women start doing? Faking it, of course. Because really, who has the time or desire to deal with another person’s constant insecurities? Genius! And kind of thoughtful, as well.

My ego, too, is big and fragile. And while I don’t lack sexual confidence and never had to deal with premature ejaculation, I do suffer from severe depression and anxiety. Still, my problem was never sexual, and in fact, sex was one of the very few activities where I never felt pressured. It was the rest of life I had a problem with. But during sex? I just lived in the moment and fully experienced every second of it. It’s when I wasn’t having sex that my mind wandered and spiraled into some really dark holes (please don’t take that as a pun, I’m trying to reveal some real personal shit here!)

I went to therapy for years, and while counseling helped tremendously, my therapist suggested that a little chemical aid could be in order. I was hesitant at first, since I had dated my share of girls who took antidepressants and I’d had long nights dealing with people who overdid their Xanax and wine cocktails.

My therapist explained there was milder stuff, and that sometimes my brain doesn’t produce the amount of serotonin necessary for me to function properly. While a lot of my problems had to do with my childhood and some recent traumatic events, there was also a chemical imbalance that hindered my development.

So I started taking antidepressants. The changes were very mild, but it was really exciting when I started feeling some progress with it. I wasn’t having anxiety attacks and was more focused and relaxed in general. The psychiatrist told me my appetite and my sex drive could diminish a bit, but for a sex-obsessed over-eater that sounded like an added benefit.

I did experience a reduced libido. Nothing too extreme, I just didn’t find myself as sex-oriented as the non-medicated version of me was. This is the part I loved. You see, I would never want to remove sex out of my life, but not being focused on it all the time did a lot of my productivity. Sex was around and I wanted to have it, but I was far less likely to make bad decisions in order to get there.

When I did get there, though, the effect wasn’t as good. As it turns out, some Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SSRI antidepressants) can delay ejaculation. I figured it’d just take a few more minutes and I was fine with that. But when the moment came, it was the first time in my life that an orgasm felt like something I had to work hard for.

I had to dirty it up so much in my mind! I had to focus intensely. I started introducing more dirty talk. I had to get extra thin condoms all the time. And I definitely got a lot more creative with sex toys to enhance my own pleasure.

And yet, a lot of times I couldn’t come. I’d be thrusting the night away with the best of intentions, but it wasn’t easy.

Here’s the main problem I had: I was single at the time. See, when you have a girlfriend, she’ll likely know about your depression and will probably encourage your use of medication to curb it. Your difficulty to achieve orgasm is something you can talk about and work on together. When you’re single, though, and you hook up with someone you meet at a bar, it’s a little weird to bring it up. You don’t want to scare anyone away or reveal too much to someone you just met. So you’ve got to play along and hope for the best.

I remember the first time I noticed I wasn’t going to come. We’d been fucking for nearly an hour, and I was just growing more frustrated. I realized it might actually not happen at all. But what to do, then? Should I just admit what’s going on? Should I just assume that we’re drunk and no one will care?

As I was pondering these options it occurred to me that this might have been an unprecedented event for that girl, too. I was 28 years old at the time, so I was very aware that women also have fragile egos, especially when this probably had never happened to her. How was she going to react to that? I didn’t want her to feel inadequate, nor have to “it’s not you, it’s me” her in that moment, regardless if that was the truth. I had to think fast. I was also tired, and drunk and, honestly, I kind of just wanted to go to sleep.

So I did it, man. I faked it. I slowly showed an escalating excitement, I embraced her tightly, I grunted quietly, I shook a little bit. I wanted to make it believable. I kissed her, turned to my side to remove my empty condom, threw it away and immediately this overwhelming feeling of peace took over me.

What this gave me was a completely new perspective; you could even argue it was female-like. It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying sex, I was. I just wasn’t reaching orgasm easily, and while that was frustrating at first, I realized it wasn’t the end of the world if I didn’t come.

Don’t get me wrong, eventually I tried a few different antidepressants and settled on one that didn’t affect my orgasms. I obviously prefer to climax, but you know what? It’s okay if I don’t. That made me respect the fake orgasm a lot more. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing and, in a way, it’s no different than a person complementing the meal you prepared for them, even if they didn’t like it much; or supporting your art when they’re not that into it; or tolerating your annoying friends because she knows you love them. It’s a kind thing to do. And sometimes, man, we just want to go to sleep.