My husband thinks he's good in bed.
He's not.
But here's the thing - it's not his fault. And for three years, I let him believe the lie because the truth was too complicated to explain.
The truth? Every position hurt. Every angle was wrong. Every session ended with me sneaking ibuprofen while he fell asleep satisfied.
I became an Academy Award-winning actress in my own bedroom.
The moaning? Practiced. The enthusiasm? Performed. The "yes, right there"? Complete bullshit.
And before you judge me, know this: 70% of women are doing the exact same thing.
The Night I Finally Snapped
Six months ago, mid-fake-orgasm, I just... stopped.
"What's wrong?" he asked, confused.
"Everything hurts and has hurt for three fucking years."
The look on his face. Like I'd just told him Santa wasn't real.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Because how do you explain that childbirth rearranged your insides? That your back screams in positions that used to feel amazing? That you're choosing between his ego and your comfort every single night?
You don't. You fake it. Like millions of other women.
The Doctor Who Called BS On Everyone
My new gynecologist, Dr. Martinez, didn't sugarcoat anything:
"Let me guess - your previous doctors told you to 'relax more' or 'use more lube' or maybe prescribed hormones?"
I nodded.
"Idiots. Your hormones are fine. Your body's fine. You're just trying to have sex on a surface designed for sleeping, not fucking."
She pulled out a paper and drew a diagram.
"27 degrees. That's the angle your pelvis needs to eliminate pressure on your lower spine. Without it, you're basically torturing yourself for his pleasure."
"Stop being a martyr. Get proper support or keep faking it. Your choice."