Performance anxiety is usually something attributed to men. Men are expected to get hard in an instant, hold out for an hour uninterrupted, understand the nuances of how the clitoris, labia, g-spot, and vaginal walls all work in unison, then keep them happily moving forward towards orgasm land while the patterns of arousal gradually change as their partner gets close and closer to orgasm. On top of all that we're supposed to have thick eight-inchers capable of running so deep they'll magically put our lovers straight to sleep (paraphrasing Ice Cube). A lot of men take great pleasure in bragging about their competitive capacities, either in terms of wang size or proficiency at making vaginas gush nectar. Trying to manage all of those complex operations while subconsciously wondering just how their performance ranks in terms of skill and general "good"-ness can be enough to kill a boner before it's even out of a guy's pants.
I don't know whether or not this phenomenon of performance anxiety exists for women, but I suspect that many women are much more insecure about the way their body looks rather than with how well they're capable of "performing." I don't have a comprehensive body of knowledge from which to draw, but my anecdotal evidence has led me to the conclusion that most straight women are lousy lays. If there are strict requirements for being a "cunning linguist" as airheadgenius calls the acts of lapping a woman's mucus flaps, there must surely be an equally complex and demanding list of instructions for how to handle a penis.
For many women, it seems like the simple act of touching a man's penis should be an earth-shaking event. Once contact is made, the only remaining need is to monotonously jack the beast back and forth until the skies open up and the man turns into a quivering mess for a good 30 seconds. One of the last women I hooked up with reminded me of this fact. After vaguely grabbing my penis while we were kissing in bed, I let out an encouraging moan. Apparently this was the signal to go for broke as the woman instantly switched into fifth gear and started pistoning away as if I was seconds from coming. And without any lube.
Blowjobs also seem to be some unspoken gift that should make a man crumble in ecstasy. The sheer fact that a woman is willing to put her head in between a man's legs should be more than enough to guarantee a week's worth of gratitude. I almost never come from head. If you can imagine the act of repetitively licking away at the clit (or offering up the dread back-and-forth headwag), then transpose that to the penis and you'll get a fair comparison. Just because there's lots of Hooksexup endings on the penis doesn't mean that variation, sensitivity, and multiple points of stimulation at differing times and different intensities aren't required to really make the act come off as something more pleasurable than a warm mouth-bath. A stunning majority of the blowjobs I've ever gotten tend towards the nob-slobbering, up-and-down variety with a ball tickle or a finger in the ass thrown in if the woman's feeling extra self-assured. It's not that having a mouth go up and down over a penis feels bad; it's nice. But it gets boring quickly.
The penis (and the surrounding neighborhood in which it resides) is a terrifically complicated organ, every bit as nuanced as the vagina. It's capable of just as intense and ecstatic highs as those that can be elucidated from a vagina, but women always seem to give men the short shrift in the sac. For a lot of women that I've been with, there was an unspoken passivity to their approach to sex. It's almost as if the most engaging part of sex for the woman is the thrill of being desired and sought after; when she finally deigns to accept a suitor she becomes supine and indulgent. She tosses her head back, gives a tepid few attempts at masturbation or oral sex, and then spreads her legs wide waiting for the man to get on with his business.
Maybe I'm protesting too much, or taking a bunch of random encounters that didn't turn into relationships to validate a general argument. Still, I see a connection between the way women are born and bred to be constantly pursued, to need the man to be the first one to call, to not make the first move, to call their peers sluts for being sexually aggressive; and the larger experiences I've had with women who are lousy in bed.
Our culture celebrates the art of the hook-up and the "great fuck." We believe in concepts like being "good in bed," but how can you be good in bed if you look at a clump of Hooksexup endings as the secret answer to anything? Jack them, lick them, suck them, bite them, take them inside. The secret of great sex is realizing that those Hooksexup endings are attached to an entire body filled with Hooksexup endings, and those Hooksexup endings report directly back to the brain, which tells the heart to beat and the blood to flow. In truth, there are no rules to being good or bad in bed. You only have to listen, and experiment, and adapt. Just like with anything else in life. Still, we've somehow kept women on this elevated pedestal historically and culturally, in which we've turned them into some kind of metaphysical acquisition of which the possessing is enough.
Previous Posts:
Date Night: All By Myself on a Saturday Night
Sex Machine: Spank My Ass
Love Machine: Infidelity or How Long Can You Go Without Cheating?
Date Night: The 45-Minute Walkout
Date Night Redux: H's Version of Our Night Out
Celebrity Confession: Who is Lauren Cohan and Why is She Hitting on Me?
Sex Machine: My First Muff Dive
Crying in Public: Remember the Cheerleaders
Sex Machine: Masturbating Upside Down
Date Night: Two Women in One Night
Hooksexup Confessions: Rate My Penis Size
Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train
Love machine: How I Date On The Internet
Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs
Crying in Public: My Cubicle