How to Fuck Like You Mean It

Issue Three: On Bachata, Bad Sex, and Sneezing

I dance bachata.

It’s sensual, alive, magnetic—and has a lot in common with sex.

Let me tell you a secret: it’s one of the only places I follow.

But it’s not a passive follow—it’s attuned.

A subtle conversation of the body.

It’s about listening, not submitting. Responding, not reacting.

And every time I dance, I can’t help but notice how much it mirrors sex.

There was one guy I danced with—absolutely stunning.

Think Ryan Gosling meets Hugh Jackman with a twist of “personal trainer who talks about macros at parties.”

Technically flawless.

Sharp lead, perfect timing, strong frame.

Chef’s kiss.

But every time we danced… something felt off.

Like the rhythm was right but the soul was missing.

After each song, he’d lean in with hopeful eyes and ask,

“How was it for you?”

And I couldn’t help but think of all the men who’ve asked me: 

“Did you come?”

Now—I don’t say this to shame anyone.

But let’s be honest:

What I heard in both questions wasn’t curiosity.

It was a plea for validation.

Because here’s the thing:

We’re all playing out the stories we’ve been given.

Men have been taught that they should be able to make a woman come—

with their penis, ideally in under ten minutes, while she gasps and arches and whispers “Oh my God” like a shampoo commercial.

And if she doesn’t?

Well, then something must be wrong—with her, with him, or with the entire relationship.

So sex becomes a test.

An unspoken performance review.

And when you’re busy performing, you’re not present.

You’re in your head, not your body.

And while we’re here, let’s talk about faking it.

Why do people fake orgasms?

Let me offer you a possibly outrageous but entirely sincere theory:

Orgasm is a social construct.

Yes, yes, it’s real.

But the meaning we attach to it?

That’s constructed.

Orgasm is just a bit like sneezing.

Sometimes they arrive fully, 

Other times it builds up, teases you, and vanishes halfway through like a cat that’s suddenly decided you’re not worth its attention.

We don’t have existential crises over failed sneezes.

We don’t lie in bed wondering, “Why didn’t it happen? Is it me? Is it my sinus health? Is it something I said?”

But with orgasms?

We build identity on them.

We measure love with them.

We assess compatibility and self-worth based on whether or not someone sneezed properly in our presence.

And the pressure is real.

Here’s a fun (read: maddening) stat:

Over 84% of women with vulvas require external stimulation to climax.

That’s right—external.

Not just a penis and some optimism.

So here we are.

Some people in their heads, wondering if they’ve “done enough.”

Some in their heads, wondering if it’s easier to moan than explain.

And everyone’s disconnected.

But joyful sex—like joyful bachata—

has very little to do with technique,

and everything to do with attunement.

My favourite dance partners are the ones who make me feel safe.

They don’t yank or push.

They hold a clear, steady frame.

They communicate through the body.

They sense when I’m tired, when I’m playful, when I want to be close, and when I need space.

They don’t take over the dance.

They invite it.

And with those partners—I could dance forever.

Just like the lovers I’ve had the most extraordinary sex with.

It was never about “Did you come?”

It was about presence.

It was about breath.

It was about the quiet truth behind the touch.

And I could see it in their eyes:

They were there. With me. Meaning it.