It’s not the length that concerns Damon Young, so why does he think orgasms are overrated?
This was originally published on Very Smart Brothas.
Although I haven’t brought an egg timer or stop watch to bed with me to measure one yet, I feel very confident in saying that my average orgasm lasts somewhere between three and eleven seconds. And, although I haven’t done any extensive research on this topic, I feel equally confident in saying that most men could say the exact same thing. (Perhaps, since every man has one, we should start saying “Opinions are like three- to eleven-second long orgasms.” Gives the saying a bit more punch than “assholes” does.)
You’re probably wondering why I seem to be so concerned with the length of my—and the rest of my brethren’s—orgasms. It’s not the length that concerns me, though. It’s the lengths we go through to do something that lasts about as long as it’ll take for you to read the rest of this sentence.
Before I continue, although the title lets you know that I think orgasms are undoubtedly overrated, don’t take that to mean that I think they’re bad. They are the antithesis of bad. They are outstanding, amazing, superb, practical, remarkable, resourceful, colorful, enlightening, and even occasionally educational. I’ve had orgasms that have made me speak in dead languages (Fluently!), that have made me scream the same dignity-less scream I’d scream if I woke up with a spider on my lip, that have made me get up and fry bacon buck naked, that have even made me whisper ”damn” with the same understated reverence usually reserved for Free’s ass, movies where Denzel sheds tears, and your mom’s turkey gravy. As a self-proclaimed orgasm expert, I staunchly believe that a collective increase in our country’s orgasms would lead to a collective decrease in our country’s crime. Orgasms are, by any stretch of the imagination, the shit.
But, while their status as the shit is unquestioned, this shitness pales in comparison to the effort we take to receive them. Seriously, think about the absurd, idiotic, embarrassing, and scandalous-ass stuff we’ve done just because of the mere possibility of having an orgasm. Think about the time you flew to New York during a coast-wide blackout, or the time you risked your perfectly good relationship to have one, or the time in high school you begged your mom to let her borrow her car and conveniently “forgot” to pick her up from work on time just so you could have more time to have an orgasm with a person that you thought so little of that they weren’t allowed past the basement steps and still think so little of that you just blocked them from your Facebook feed last week. If you’ve had unprotected sex before (which, I’m assuming 99.7% of the sexually active people reading this have) you’ve risked your freakin’ life for an orgasm.
Now, I realize that this need to orgasm isn’t necessarily about the orgasms as much as the context (the person you’re with, the connection you share, and blah, blah, blah, blah) and what can possibly happen when you have one (procreation). In this sense, it’s a means to an evolutionary end. But, although I’m not sure if our minds are advanced enough to perform the cognitive dissonance needed to completely disassociate having an orgasm with what could very likely be the result of that orgasm, I know that I’ve never, ever, ever consciously thought “I need to put a baby in her belly” when seeing an attractive woman at the bar. In fact, I’ll usually be thinking of putting the, um, “results of my orgasm” anywhere on her person (foot, cheek, back, ear, back of the ear, etc) except for the one place it’s supposed to go (vagina).
Would I still maintain that orgasms were overrated if they lasted longer? Perhaps. But, considering the effort undertaken to receive them, orgasms might have to last 120 to 150 minutes to begin to receive an accurate return on our investment, and I don’t know if we’re prepared to handle that.
I do know, though, that 25 to 30 minutes after I finish writing this, there’s a (98.7%) chance that I’m going to check a special folder on my desktop, grab a lubricating agent, a towel, turn the heat up in my place so my hands and feet don’t get cold, and begin the process that’s going to lead to that aforementioned three to eleven seconds of unadulterated theshitness.
But, despite this relatively miminal effort, only one thought is going to go through my head while I perform my usual post-masturbatory duties (clean up, shower, self-loathe, etc.) “Damn, I was right. This IS overrated. Perhaps I’ll hurry up and perform this overrated task again.”
—Photo kait jarbeau is in love with you/Flickr