An E-Mail From My Ex Revealing She Faked All Her Orgasms
Allow me to state, for the record, that of the 247 separate occasions when we fornicated, 87 of those occasions included a discreet, concerted effort by you to give me pleasure. Of those 87 recorded attempts, you were successful a grand total of zero times.
David,
I hope this e-mail finds you well. Please forgive my rather formal approach to this correspondence. You certainly know me to be a far more compassionate woman than my language makes me appear. If you recall that time we were on the Bumper Boats at the mini golf course and your boat ran out of gas, I didn’t say a word when you started crying. I held your hand after they fished you out of the man-made lake. I even paid for the cab ride home when you said you were “too shaken up to drive.” Also, I turned a blind eye when you threw up in the dining car of the Napa Valley Wine Train. Overall, I’d say I am an empathetic person.
That’s why it is so hard for me to reveal to you via electronic mail that I faked all of my orgasms. When I say all, I am not exaggerating. Allow me to state, for the record, that of the 247 separate occasions when we fornicated, 87 of those occasions included a discreet, concerted effort by you to give me pleasure. Of those 87 recorded attempts, you were successful a grand total of zero times.
Yes, I keep a sex journal.
Actually, it’s more of a “sex spreadsheet.”
Bear in mind that I appreciate your work ethic. I acknowledge that you expended a great deal of energy with multiple parts of your body, and a very expensive collection of esoteric devices purchased through certain Polish, Czech and Ukrainian websites. In particular, I was quite fond of “Robert’s Warhammer,” which I came to learn was a clever reference to Game of Thrones. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve caught up with Season 2.
I spent a lot of time contemplating whether or not I would reveal this shameful secret. After sex, you always had that look on your face that reminded me of Yogi Bear soon after duping the buffoonish Ranger Smith. Unfortunately, you were not as deft as Yogi Bear might have been in raiding my pic-a-nic basket. I felt that ruining your illusion would be the cruelest thing I could possibly do outside of leaving you for Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder, Matt Kemp.
Once I started dating Matt, I decided I might as well go for broke. So yes, I faked all of my orgasms. I came to develop a foolproof method of subterfuge, in which I would scream as loud as I possibly could, but also tremble and shake the bed in order to distract you from any cracks in performance. You might have also noticed my habit of moaning “I think I’ve seen God!” each time. Nothing is more flattering to a male psyche than the hope of a religious experience during sex. I never actually saw God, but I will admit to having an image of Pope Benedict XVI riding a triceratops pop into my brain for about fifteen seconds once. The Pope seemed really pissed to be riding proof that evolution is real.
Faking it just seemed like a better way to move the evening along than me whispering in your ear that Castle was coming on and it was a new episode. I tried that once with a guy I met before you, and he whispered back, “don’t worry, I DVR’d it.” I had to suffer through another hour of clumsy panting, sweating and stumbling of a kind not seen outside of a Republican presidential debate.
I know this must hurt. My sympathy is with you. If our places were switched, I’d be devastated too. I’d also wonder how a man managed to successfully fake 87 orgasms without being detected, but that’s not the point. The point is I would be so distressed. I hope you can forgive me for my duplicity. If you would like me to write you a letter of recommendation that you can show to prospective mates, I’d be happy to. I’m more than willing to vouch for you as a dedicated, motivated lover with an eagerness to learn more and improve. Your stubbornness, curiosity and verve almost made up for your general lack of competence.
In some ways, I admired you for being completely unwilling to admit failure. You’re much like the great tragic heroes of literature, David. You’re Jay Gatsby, Michael Henchard, Hamlet or that one guy from Twilight that turns into the wolf. You’re fascinating in so many ways, but not in ways that give me an orgasm. That’s why I’m dating a baseball player now. Not only is he not interesting, his day job is not interesting either. It’s possible that there is a direct relationship between level of complexity in a human being and the number of orgasms they are physically capable of giving out.
Please respond and let me know you’re doing alright. Also, if you want Dodger tickets, Matt’s agent’s assistant’s roommate can get you five percent off.
Best,
Debbie 
