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February 22, 2019

Samantha's Chronicles: Time to settle

Yes, some women squirt. Ejaculate. They’re so embarrassed about it that they’re afraid to have sex. I like my orgasms just fine but today I’d rather soak the entire room than be totally unfulfilled. 

“Yes, baby. I came three times. It was awesome,” I tell Luke.

I lie, like millions of other women around the world are doing right now. And like them, I watch the guy roll over, fall into a sated slumber all the while snoring away, content in his manhood, leaving us wondering what the hell happened to Mike (or his equivalent, because every woman has one). I turn on the TV. I can’t sleep. On the screen is the Discovery channel airing the last thing I want to see: lions mating.

“Lions mate several times a year,” the commentator says. “A mating marathon can involve 20-40 romps a day.”

He goes on to say that the amorous pair often doesn’t stop to eat. The female is out of control when in heat and can go at it every 15 minutes for three days straight without any sleep. With even three-four different mates. Lionesses are not too concerned with monogamy, it seems. It reminds me of that song by the BloodHound gang, The Bad Touch.

You and me, baby, ain’t nothing but mammals

So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery channel…  

(Do it again now)

You and me, baby, ain’t nothing but mammals

So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery channel…  

(Gettin’ horny now)

After watching the lioness make a shrieking noise and the male bite her neck, I turn the channel to a World Cup replay. Staring at virile men kick a ball for 90 minutes might not be the cure for what I’ve got, but I do it anyway. It’s far better than watching animals that have a better sex life than I do. I console myself with the fact that 80 per cent of the women across the world are suffering silently like I am right now. That’s a whole load of us faking orgasms. It’s the Poland-Senegal game on the screen, and I happily watch it again. They lose to Senegal and in the moments after the game, pictures appear of Poland’s main man, Robert Lewandowski, with his wife Anna comforting him with hugs and kisses. I’ll bet she has an orgasm every night. I turn off the TV and try and get some sleep.

Luke is up the next morning at some ungodly hour to go for a meeting, and he leaves me behind to sleep in. He has a beautiful home. It occurs to me while I have my morning coffee, that maybe God doesn’t give you everything. This guy would be perfect if he could satisfy a woman in bed. But as it stands, it’s time to move on. I know I won’t be back. And I won’t call Mike, either. 

Watching the Lewandowskis on the screen has given me relationship goals. That’s what I want. Love. Great sex. All of it — why compromise? They’ve been married for five years, dated for five years before that, and I’ll bet with their athletic lives (she is a martial arts guru and he plays for Bayern Munich), things can get quite steamy between the sheets. But aside from sex, the way she tenderly held him and the way he hung onto her — that’s the real deal if I ever saw it. And that’s what I want.

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