naked: standards, doubled

Does this mean men will maybe get to stop apologizing? Because I think that will be the greatest of all outcomes of this study, which says the optimal amount of time for penetrative intercourse ranges between seven and thirteen minutes. They’re not measuring the entire time you’re in bed (or up against the wall or in the back seat or on the elevator) but the entire time the penis is in the vagina (this is a very hetero-centric study, here).

Almost, if not every, partner-with-a-penis I’ve ever had has felt bad about the amount of time he was able to last. Almost every last one of them, from the guy who pumped a couple of times and collapsed on top of me, to the guy who lasted exactly the right length of time according to all the nerve endings in my body, to the guy who went and went and went, uninspired plowing that lasted an eternity and had me wondering what, exactly, he was thinking about up there, down there, back there, over there. They all apologized for not being able to last longer–even if I had come half a dozen times, even if I was supremely satisfied, even I was sore and tired and very, very okay with being done now, thanks, can we roll over?–they apologized, because they were not the super studs they were supposed to be.

Where did the idea of the super stud who is supposed to last forever,
rock-hard and plunging like a piston–that men are supposed to want it all the time at every second and
be able to keep it hard for days–come from? From the same place, I suppose, as the idea that women should to
be able to come from penetration–and at the drop of a hat have multiple
orgasms, and wear fancy lingerie at all times. I want to know why we do this
to ourselves, with the ridiculous expectations on both sides.

It makes me cringe, every time I hear someone talking about her man
lasting all night. All night! That is a lot of work. That is a serious
amount of commitment. That is some chafing, and that is a little more
aerobic than anyone really needs. I am tired after ten minutes,
exhausted after 15, and honey, you have to take over, now, if you
want to keep up with this pounding thing, because I cannot do it any
more. I would so much rather spend the night doing all the other things
you can do with naked bodies and hands and mouths and toys, instead of
feeling like we are obligated to meet some proscribed length of time
that seems made up to make men feel inadequate and unsatisfactory in

It feels good, it does, when it lasts, and sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t. But nobody should be thinking
about baseball; so much better, thinking about exactly how good this
feels, in the moment and enjoying this, not distracting themselves to
meet some standard that does not exist. Come fast, come hard–and then
do it again, how about? With all the lovely build-up included. Nap,
first. Order in a pizza. Watch an episode of Law & Order, maybe get
distracted. Maybe later we can burn down all the rules and the
rulebooks and the expectations and the shoulds and the ought tos, for
everyone, huzzah.

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