This is a comparative study in bedroom bullsh*t and relationship cosplay.
Let’s be brutally honest for once: the bedroom has been running on two parallel counterfeit economies for decades.
Women have perfected the art of the theatrical climax, moans pitched somewhere between wounded opera diva and dying dolphin, back arching like they’re trying to escape their own skeleton, the classic “Oh god, yes, right there… keep going… almost… almost…” followed by the sudden, Oscar-worthy stillness that signals mission accomplished (for him, mostly).
Meanwhile, across the same mattress, men have been quietly minting their own fake currency: Emotional Availability™ — the deluxe limited-edition version that comes with soft eye contact, thoughtful “hmms,” and the occasional “I’m really not good at this feelings stuff but I’m trying, babe” delivered in the same tone one uses to apologise for scratching the car.
Both performances deserve their own award categories at the Annual Relational Bullsh*t Oscars.
Her Category: Best Simulated Seismic Event
She’s essentially directing an avant-garde one-woman show called “The Big O That Definitely Happened This Time.” The props are limited (pillow, headboard, whatever poor houseplant is unfortunate enough to be in the splash zone), but the commitment? Divine. She’ll throw in some improvised dialogue (“You’re so deep I can feel you in my soul”), a few strategic muscle contractions that would make a Kegel coach weep with pride, and the grand finale: the pillow-face scream muffled just enough to maintain plausible deniability.
Why the effort? Because telling a man “that was cute but my clitoris is currently filing a missing persons report” tends to end date night faster than saying his mother is lovely.
His Category: Best Fake Depth in a Supporting Role
He, on the other hand, is playing the long con: Emotional Stripping Tease.
First the shirt comes off.
Then the “I’m actually quite sensitive” hoodie.
Then the “I’ve been hurt before so I take things slow” leather jacket.
And just when you think he’s finally naked… surprise! There’s another three layers of “I’m not ready for labels but you’re really special” bulletproof Kevlar wrapped around his heart chakra.
He’ll listen to your childhood trauma story while gently stroking your hair… right up until the moment his emotional bandwidth hits 87% capacity, at which point the system automatically reboots into “babe let’s just have sex, maybe you will feel better?” safe mode.
The truly elite practitioners can maintain plausible emotional availability for up to 14–18 months, long enough to secure regular sex, half the closet space, and at least one drawer before the blue screen of “I need space to work on myself” inevitably appears.
The kinky truth men and women don’t want to admit.
Women fake orgasms because they want the performance to end.
Men fake emotional availability because they want the relationship to continue.
She’s trying to wrap the scene.
He’s trying to get unlimited sequels.
She’s edging the ending.
He’s edging commitment.
She’s clenching for the finish line.
He’s clenching his emotional jaw so hard his therapist can hear it from three suburbs away.
In the end, both parties are just extremely committed method actors in the same exhausting improv show called “Intimacy.”
The only difference is:
When she fakes it, the bed sheets get wet.
When he fakes it, your soul gets trench foot.
Curtain.
(Now please clap for both performers. They worked very hard on their respective lies tonight.)
If the delicious hypocrisy hit just right, you can stalk, sorry, follow my page at Her Campus at MUJ for more bedroom fraud files and relational smoke & mirrors.