The great orgasmic fakeout

Typical faking it scenarios:

1. He's pounding every which way in an effort to take you to Pluto and back. You're silently mourning the loss of lube, which dried up twenty minutes ago. If the chap continues much longer, your vagina will swell, start to resemble a halved grapefruit, and you'll have to tuck your labia folds into your underwear.

So...you fake it. He comes, feeling like the million dollar man, rolls over and starts counting sheep. You head to the toilet, fan your burning bush, and plead to the urine Gods that you won't have a bladder infection in the morning. You then crawl under the covers, pull out the chick lit you read when no one is conscious, and relax.

2. The lube is adequate, but you know it's not happening tonight. That window's been painted shut and an orgasm's about as feasible as a marriage proposal from Prince William. But he's there. And he's earnest. He's trying everything: over the shoulders, reverse cowboy, dog's at the backdoor, clitoral flick & lick...it's not for lack of effort. Or ability. It's just you really, really want to watch Desperate Housewives and it's on in five minutes.

So...you fake it. He's happy. And you're happily curled-up on the sofa, munching trans-fat-free microwave popcorn and dreaming of Gabrielle's lawn boy trimming your hedges.

3. You had to work late, unwisely crossed town in un-sensible stilettos, ate too much sugar and are crashing. You're PMSing and consequently feel ugly and fat. You get home, feed the flowers, water the fish, collapse on your bed...and catch that "Are you in the mood for love, luv?" hopeful glance from Mr. Everhorny.

You most certainly are not in the mood, can't imagine it, and are actually quite resentful that he is. But you love him. And he helped you paint your kitchen. And he saved you $500 from the leering mechanic. And he made you lasagna on Saturday night. And, most importantly, it takes less time and effort to give in, give it up and fake a quickie than it does to fend him off all night.

So...you fake it. Then you pull on comfy p.j.s; Sonic Care, floss, exfoliate, and hop into bed with your very satiated, much-appreciative, million dollar man. Who, by the way, thinks you're the bionic woman because you can orgasm like Jane Fonda in Barbarella.