I have advice to give: What to do when your man doesn’t cum

Hi Hy!

I’m a huge fan of your blog, and I think it’s one of the greatest (sex or otherwise) there is. I don’t know if you’re into giving advice, but I just started dating a guy and I feel like you could help me with a situation that’s come up.

My boy has trouble coming. It’s something we’ve discussed since the first time we had sex, so I’ve known for the entirety of our relationship. However, two months in, it’s starting to get me down…I know it has nothing to do with me, and I do enjoy sex with him regardless, but after a while it starts to make me feel self conscious and then I can’t come either, and we both end up tired and kind of unsatisfied. It hasn’t caused any major issues yet, but I feel like it could begin to soon.

I know TN has a similar sitch, so I was wondering if you have any advice as to how to get past it and enjoy the experience, without worrying about the end result.

Thanks! Have an excellent new year!
Orgasmless in Orlando

Dear Orgasmless in Orlando,

First, I hope you don’t mind that I made up where you live.  It just sorta went with “orgasmless.”  Second, thank you so very much for emailing me and your kind words!  I don’t pretend to be the expert on anything, but I certainly try to see things from every corner and I am more than willing to share my experience and journey with anyone willing to listen.  And lastly, you and I aren’t the only women who’ve experienced a man who can’t cum and I bet there will be lots of interesting feedback in the comments.  Internet Boyfriend, we need you!

What does sex mean to you?

Sex is fun and hot and messy and fulfilling and nerve-wracking and bonding and amazing and weird and miraculous.  Having said that, we all seem to be very much focused on the end of sex, not necessarily the before and during parts.

We also attribute all sorts of other things to it; meanings that aren’t equitable to the thrusting of body parts.  Namely, our worth and our skills and it’s all tied up with orgasms somehow. 

Men feel like superheros when their partners cum because women are sometimes tricky puzzles, but women take it for granted (if she’s fucking a man) because men are easy as Sunday morning, but the bottom line is: our partner’s orgasms have nothing to do with us.  They belong to those who have them.  Period.

And great sex doesn’t mean there were orgasms. 

It means there was passion, pleasure, and maybe some connection to something or someone.

It’s true that we can be less skilled at certain things, but generally speaking we know what we’re doing and if we don’t we try to learn all the right buttons to push.  We’re very motivated learners once naked. 

Insecurities and doubt creep in when we have a very black and white view of what sex is supposed to look like. We need to feel satisfied with the process, not just the results!

If he doesn’t cum, then I suck

When TN and I started fucking he came almost as much as me.  I even remember a night when I made him cum 3 times.  Man, those were the days —  I didn’t make him cum once in all of 2014.

Yes.  You read that right.

When it first started happening I rolled with it.  I knew from my own personal experience that orgasming, while goddamned terrific, wasn’t required for my enjoyment. 

I don’t know what your personal experience has been with orgasms, dear Orgasmless, but I can promise you I was sincere all those years when I told my lovers who could never get me to cum that I really and truly had enjoyed myself.

If I hadn’t gone through that personally, I might have had a harder time believing TN when he told me the exact same thing.

It was odd hearing it come out of his mouth, though, because here’s the thing about dudes cumming — and it’s unfair and ridiculous for both men and women: We’re taught that sex is good — and over — when he orgasms.

Anyone can argue that isn’t the case, but the general idea about sex in this world has nothing to do with a woman’s pleasure.  Good lovers make it about the people, and thereby all partners’ pleasure, but for eons it’s been about the man and his seed.  Call it for procreation, laziness or shame, the evilness of pleasure or whatever.  But for the sake of me tackling this issue, that’s where I’m coming from.

And the sad thing is, is we’ve bought it!  We all have!  You, me, and the mailman all believe that men are these lustful, spooging creatures who, when put in front of a hot, sexy woman, can’t control himself and will lose it buried deep inside his lady.  And if he doesn’t then there’s something wrong.

Jizz does not equal success

For The Neighbor and I, the closer and more emotionally intimate we got, the less he came.  I would mention it here and there and he would blow it off as just being tired or that he came 6 times already that day.  I didn’t buy it, but I allowed it.

It doesn’t sound like you and your man have that particular issue since it’s starting right from the beginning, but what if sex for him is something deeply intimate no matter the circumstance?  What if there’s deep-seated shame?  I don’t want to play armchair psychologist, or anything, but if he’s a healthy man, orgasms should happen.  It’s a 1+1 equation.  Stimulate a healthy man and he will orgasm.

Since they’re not happening, I have to assume it’s an emotional hitch and those can be very difficult to overcome, if not impossible.  Therefore as his partner you need to do emotional work, as well.

What I’ve worked on all these months — and what I recommend you do — is unhitch his orgasm from the value of your sex. It’s irrelevant.


It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t cum. Not if he tells you it doesn’t.  Not if it seems impossible.  Not if you both can’t make it happen.

However, he can cum for you in other ways.

Cumming other ways

Recently, because I’d gotten stretched thin about this myself, I asked TN to “cum with his mouth,” instead.  In other words, if his cock won’t orgasm, then I want his mouth to share what he’s feeling.  And it’s been amazing.

He’s opened up vocally during and after sex and as I’m losing my shit I can hear the thoughts in his head also losing their shit. 

In the past when his hips thrust into me over and over — knowing that it wouldn’t end in a big release for him at the end — I would drift away a little and not be present. 

Now, with his words I can see us through his eyes and feel his experience. I reconnect to him and then orgasm myself.

I’m not saying talk dirty, just sharing his feelings — though dirty talk would work for me!  I’m suggesting requesting him to tell you how good you feel, how much he’s enjoying fucking you, or how much he loves it, etc.

When a man doesn’t cum our default thought is he wasn’t enjoying himself, but that simply isn’t fair to either of you.  So, clear away the doubt and have him share his pleasure with words instead.

Being ok with ending it

Another thing that might come up for you — because it certainly has for me — is knowing when sex is over. If we rely on the traditional model it’s when he cums. But we can’t do that.

And it isn’t necessarily after we cum, either, because sometimes that’s just a warm up!

It’s taken me a long time to learn when to call it quits. TN (and I suspect a lot of anorgasmic men) can fuck for days. He won’t stop until he’s exhausted, but that can often be long after I’m done.

I had to get comfortable with setting my own limits and not feeling like I was giving up.

Switch goals

So, my advice is this:

  • Think about what sex means to you. Is it really all about his orgasm and yours?
  • Unhitch his orgasm from your worth/ability/sexiness/desirability.
  • Ask him to express his pleasure in other ways besides an orgasm.
  • Learn to be ok ending a session when you’re done.

I hope this helps, Orgasmless in Orlando, and keep in touch with your progress!  I’m certain you and I aren’t the only women who have sex with anorgasmic men.  (And for the record, I think all of this can be applied to the reverse, as well.)

It can be a bit of a struggle internally, but certainly not insurmountable.  We’re still hot bitches. Jizz or no jizz!



The Neighbor cums with me.

Hyacinth Jones crossed with shadows
Tuesday morning.

It was Tuesday night, our hammock night between gym dates.  He came over, freshly showered, after his solo workout and brought a chicken breast and vegetables and asked me to work my magic on them.

It was a pleasant scene: me in the kitchen bitching about cooking his vile meat (“I can’t stand the way chickens are treated and they taste like shit anyway!”) and him on a couch teaching himself a new coding language while my ever-embarrasing dirty little secret,  The Only Way is Essex, honked away on the TV.

I’d had a stellar day with an old friend, a wonderful, connecting chat with a colleague, and a much-needed phone injection from my sweet pal, Noodle.  The day had been filled with sunshine and love and as the stars rose above my roof my heart swelled amidst the domestic calm.  And I was horny.  As fuck.

My poor Hitachi croaked and died shortly after I moved in with a spark and a snap — it was quite dramatic! — and I have been reliant solely on my sweet TN for release ever since.  But illness, stress, and exhaustion have collaborated to make those moments far less frequent so we had big plans for that innocuous Tuesday.  We were gonna make bunny-fucking magic.

It began when I was on the phone with Noodle.  His eyes lit up and he grinned like the Cheshire cat as he stroked himself and grew big enough to peek out of his underpants.  He wagged his cock at me trying to break my concentration, but it didn’t work.  I giggled and told her he was “waving his wiener at me!” but he had to admit defeat and tuck it back away until I was done.

Later, after dinner and a nice chat, he came and took my hand and pulled me into my room to cuddle and start our play.  We said loving things and laughed and I stroked him till he was big again.  I stood on my knees and grabbed his furry face and let his soft lips play on mine.  I felt my readiness grow and I kissed him more deeply, giddy as a schoolgirl, ready for what was about to happen to me.

And it did.  All the usual oohs and ahs, the moves, the plowing, the squirting, the great big, rolling g-spot orgasm.  All the same, wonderful, boring stuff I am fortunate enough to call my own.  But it was all me, all my orgasmic pleasure and none of his.

When this happens, I feel badly for him, though he assures me not to.  His anorgasmia preceded my appearance in his life, took a brief hiatus when I first entered it, but has sadly reinstated itself.  When this happens, I ask if he can cum on his own, with his meaty paw as I watch.  Sometimes he says he can, other times he begs off with a kiss and a cuddle.

But lately I haven’t accepted his begging off and have — in my gentle, dominant way — insisted that he at least try, to not give up on himself so easily.  And when he complies with his sweet, masculine trust, I nearly burst with pride of him.

That Tuesday night he said the words I love to hear, “I’ll try.”

He laid next to me in the candlelight and moved his hand on his shaft. I grabbed a teeny, tiny vibrator that he gave me a few weeks back.  A little AA battery thing that is a sad little version of my powerful, but dead, Hitachi.

I spread my legs and moved my eyes over my lover’s hand and thick, muscular thighs, his taut chest, his reddish beard, and finally let them rest on his beautiful face, his icy blue eyes.  He looked back at me and smiled, glanced at my jiggling breasts.

I closed my eyes and listened to the smacking of his leaking cock, the catch in his breath, and reopened them to the blur of his hand on the arc of his cock.  My orgasm began to build — so much more quickly than I ever expected — and a moan escaped from first me, then him.

His hips began to lift just ever so and my orgasm leapt forward in bounds.  And then it was there upon me and his was upon him and we were climaxing together, side-by-side, for each other and ourselves and as my back arched I managed to say amongst my Oh Fucks and Oh Shits, “Oh my God, that’s so hot!” as I watched him buck and spurt cum all over his abdomen.

We finished buried in giggles at my declaration and I snuggled into his nook, careful not to touch the cooling globs of semen.  I couldn’t stop gushing about the hotness of that moment.  That moment when he finally came with me, watching me watch him.

I asked if he could cum again and he said no, but that didn’t dissuade me from climbing between his legs and gently sucking him off again as a special finish.  The giggles spilled unbidden as my hair got stuck in the splatters of jizz — oh jizz — and with mischief in my eyes I spread it through his chest hair and ran off.

He chased me down, wrapped his arms around mine and smeared me with cum, massaged it on my face and in my hair.  We doubled over with laughter and headed to the shower, a sweet ending to a regular old Tuesday night.  A magical innocuous, bunny-fucking Tuesday night.

Not surprisingly, I slept soundly that night.  And Wednesday morning I woke up to even more magic: TN in my bed.

TN in silhouette
Wednesday morning.