Harvard is here this weekend. They want to throw the pigskin around with our boys so that they can be embarrassed in front of the masses — again. Imagine for just a moment (really, just a moment) that you are a Harvard fan. Let me set up a little scenario for you:
Your team faces a fourth-and-goal situation, down by 5 with a meager 30 seconds left in the game. The ball is snapped, and you’re on your feet. This is going to be AMAZING. You’re screaming at the top of your lungs as excitement builds. The quarterback sends a long, smooth pass to the end zone in the direction of your star receiver. He’s open, without a single defender on him. The ball is sailing straight towards him, with outstretched arms; he waits in the end zone for his moment of glory. The ball’s flight is interrupted as it grazes his fingertips and falls to the ground.
He’s missed it. Game over and your team — Harvard — didn’t score. You lose. You stop screaming. In fact you’re silent. You feign being a good sport, you smile at your Yale friends, congratulate them on their achievement (again), but deep down, you’re disappointed. No matter how loud, how convincingly you cheered, you didn’t get yours. This play has been run before, and you know that it has been completed. Others have scored, so why not you? The quarterback, the receiver, the offense, SOMEONE screwed up, but why today? And most importantly, why you? This is exactly what faking an orgasm feels like.
Harvard and Yale are coming together this weekend, and the number of hookups per capita may very well soar as debauchery, tailgating and DFEs take over campus. The number of orgasms faked this weekend will also soar. Tremendously.
Girls fake all the time. Fake it in the morning, fake it in the evening, fake it in the afternoon. According to detailed research (me asking all of my friends), women return the punt less than half the times they play. But why? Convincing everyone in the room that you’re wearing a diamond when in reality it’s a cubic zirconia IS fun, but it still doesn’t beat a good, hard, quality — rock. Knockoffs that say “Fenbi” are cheaper than the genuine, but let’s be honest, if someone handed you a REAL baguette would you turn it down? Settle for a “Fucci” over a Gucci? “Frada” over Prada? No thanks. But some fakes may have to tide you over before the real thing falls into your lap.
Over dinner with my girlfriends a few nights ago, I broached the subject. After much discussion and debate, we reached the consensus that we’ve all been there, moaning and breathing and screaming a la Meg Ryan in “When Harry Met Sally,” like Elaine on “Seinfeld.” Some do it out of boredom, as fatigue and hunger creep in, and he’s nowhere near the end zone. Others fake because, let’s face it, when the game clock is ticking, who has the time to map out a whole new play? My suitemate confessed “If it’s a random hookup, I don’t have the time or the patience to coach these people, so I fake it.”
If you have the time, you can fix the problem. That is exactly what preseason is for. Practice. Training. Coaching. Scrimmages. Players have natural talent, but often talent is not enough on its own. It needs to be cultivated. Drills are done over and over again until strength, endurance and accuracy reach their threshold. I’m talking finger exercises, tongue strengthening, endurance training. Boys, try turning a light switch off and on with your tongue 20 times a day; grab your remote (the other remote) and see if you can press the “Power” button 100 times in one minute. And for God’s sake, ask your girl what works. It’s the million dollar question.
Yet there is simply no time for this kind of hands-on training if the relationship is short lived, (like one night). Therefore, a fake is in order — for the good of the team of course.
There is also the “Good-hearted Fake.” This is the sweetest kind there is — we’re talking Dwight Hall here. Sometimes players need to be benched, but their efforts are so valiant, so painstaking, that a charitable fake is necessary to avoid injuries of the ego. “Sometimes they’re down there, working so hard that it breaks my heart. I just give in and fake the best that I can,” said one kind-hearted friend of mine. She works at a soup kitchen three times a week and reads to lepers.
I’ve always found that faking gives me time to sit back, relax and think a little. You know, ponder life’s great questions. Some women make very efficient use of this time. I call them the Overly Organized Orgasamers (OOOers, if you will). Their fakes give them time to plan, list and revise. Between a moan and an oh! Oh! OH! she can map out her day. She’s thinking, “If this ends by 9, I’ll have time to write the tail end of that paper, pluck my eyebrows, and maybe alphabetize my DVD collection.”
There’s also the Materialist, who speculates, “I wonder when those boots will go on sale” YES! YES! YES! “They’ll go great with that distressed denim jacket that I just bought from Urban Outfitters!”
There is also the Philosophical Orgasamer — hint, men, these are the chicks who look mysteriously concerned when they’re getting excited. They may even say “Uh huh” and hesitantly nod their heads. Let me let you in on something: even if you’ve seen that in porno, it’s not for real. They truly are baffled — it’s hard to keep a smile on your face when you don’t know what the hell is going on.
All of this information is probably rather discouraging, even demoralizing for many of my male readers, but fear not boys, I have discovered something in my research that is unbelievable — it will give you hope to go on, continue to hook up with as much confidence as you once had. It is the “So-Good-That-I-Start-Believing-It’s-Real-Fake.” Like it’s name implies, this is the fake-it-till-you-make it approach.
“You can psych yourself up for an orgasm; all it takes is a little effort, getting yourself into the right mindset. The buildup to the big O involves lots of moaning and dirty talk, and then before you know it, you MEAN what you’re saying, and the moans are real — and wow, then you’re on your way,” said one lucky lady. By lady I mean, of course, magician. She’s literally pulling a bunny out of a damn hat. Even I was surprised (and admittedly a little jealous) by this discovery.
The fake orgasm was far less popular (to say the least) among guys. During sit-ups at the gym, one studly friend divulged that the fake was his “worst nightmare.” Appalled that girls would resort to faking, he said, “Don’t fake. Please don’t. We’ll try, try and try again until we get it right.” You gotta love the persistence, that determined look I saw in his eyes. (Call me, I’ll give you his number.)
One overconfident dude told me that NO ONE has EVER faked with him. I inquired as to how he was so sure of this. He replied that he ALWAYS asks the girls he’s with if they, you know, had the big O, and the answer was always a firm yes.
OK champ. Let’s do a little critical thinking: if she’s already gone to great lengths to fake it, you think that she’ll ruin the job by blowing her own cover? Lying to your face is even easier than lying to your penis.
Another, shall I say, less sensitive, individual said, “I don’t care about YOU. It’s a race — whoever gets their cookies first.” Nice. I have a feeling this gentleman has been beating his own eggs for quite a while now, so I want to know, how can you get cookies if no one is doing any baking?
The solutions to the faking problem are few and far between. The truth is, it just takes a little more for girls than it does for guys. Just remember, that practice, practice, practice makes perfect. Or, for a quick and easy solution, come to The Game on Saturday. I’ve been told by numerous sources that you’ll NEVER have to fake it with the Yale defensive line. The men, the myths, the legends–
Go Bulldogs! (I mean that for real)
Natalie Krinsky hopes her parents don’t see the Yale Daily News this weekend.