I’m lying there, sheets tangled, heart still hammering a bit, trying to catch my breath. The bloke next to me, let’s call him Jake, because every second guy in Hackney seems to be called Jake, rolls over, gives me this lazy, self-satisfied grin and goes, “So… did you cum?”
Did I ‘cum’?
Mate.
I just stared at him. Like, proper stared. The kind of stare that could curdle milk. Because here’s the thing. I’d spent the last forty-five minutes doing the mental maths every woman knows by heart: fake the moans at the right rhythm, clench at the right moments, tilt my hips just so he thinks he’s hitting the spot. All while his fingers were doing the absolute bare minimum somewhere in the general postcode of my clit. And now he’s asking me if I came like it’s a customer satisfaction survey at Nando’s.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to yeet him out the window of my Hackney flat.
Instead I just muttered, “Yeah, it was great,” pulled the duvet up and reached for my vape. Cherry flavour hit the back of my throat and I thought, *babes, this is the hill I’m dying on tonight.*
Because this isn’t one bad shag. This is an epidemic.
Men asking “Did you cum?” like the question itself isn’t the reddest flag in the history of red flags. Like it’s not their actual job to *know*. To care. To pay attention for once in their bloody lives.
Let me take you back a bit. Proper story time.
I matched with Jake on Hinge three weeks earlier. Profile said he was “emotionally intelligent” and “loves deep conversations.” His top photo was him at a protest holding a sign that said “Smash the Patriarchy.” I should’ve known. Every time a man puts that on his profile it’s basically a warning label: “I will expect you to do all the emotional and sexual labour while I pat myself on the back for being woke.”
We went for drinks first. He talked a big game about consent and how important it was that women feel safe. I was impressed. Stupidly. Then we ended up back at mine and… well. You already know how that went.
The worst part? He wasn’t even mean about it. He was *nice*. Soft voice. Good hair. The kind of bloke who says “I’m a feminist” unprompted. And still, the second he came, his brain switched off. Mission accomplished. Time to check if the product worked.
I’ve heard that question so many times now it’s basically background noise. Different accents. Different flats. Same vacant, hopeful little smile.
“Did you cum?”
“You good?”
“Was that alright for you?”
Translation: *I have no idea what just happened down there and I’m hoping you’ll do the emotional labour of lying to me so I can keep feeling like a stud.*
God, it makes me furious just typing it.
Let’s be real for a second. The orgasm gap isn’t some mysterious scientific puzzle. We know the numbers. Straight women in long-term relationships? About 65% say they usually orgasm during sex. Straight men? 95%. Gay men? Even higher. Lesbian women? Highest of the lot. Funny how that works, innit? Almost like when nobody’s expecting a penis to do all the heavy lifting, women actually get to enjoy themselves.
But nah. Straight men still act like female pleasure is some mythical quest that requires a treasure map, a Sherpa and a prayer to the gods of Pornhub.
And then they have the cheek to ask if you came.
I asked my Coven group chat about this the other morning — you know, the one where we actually share the messy truths instead of the polished Instagram versions. The replies flooded in so fast my phone nearly overheated.
Sarah from The Canary: “Last guy literally asked me while he was still inside me. I was like… mate, if you have to ask you already know the answer.”
Priya (my mate who writes for Novara sometimes): “I started keeping a tally. Twenty-three different men in the last two years. Eighteen of them asked some variation of that question. Zero of them actually made me cum without me directing traffic like a bloody air traffic controller.”
Even my little sister — twenty-four, still doing the whole situationship thing — sent me a voice note at 2 a.m. last week. “Em, he asked me while he was putting his socks back on. I wanted to tell him the only thing that came was my Uber.”
We’re all exhausted, babes. Proper knackered.
Because here’s what nobody says out loud: asking “Did you cum?” isn’t curiosity. It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. It shifts the responsibility onto us. Suddenly it’s our job to perform pleasure, to fake it convincingly, to soothe his ego so he doesn’t have to do the hard work of actually learning our bodies.
I’ve done it. You’ve done it. We’ve all done it.
Lying there thinking about tomorrow’s deadline while making the right noises. Clenching around him at the perfect moment. Whispering “yeah, like that” even though it’s not even close. All so he can roll off feeling like a hero instead of the selfish prick he actually is.
And the really depressing bit? A lot of these blokes genuinely think they’re good in bed. They’ve got the whole routine down. The three minutes of enthusiastic jackhammering. The obligatory “you’re so hot” muttered into your neck. The post-nut clarity where they suddenly remember to ask the question they should’ve been answering with their hands and mouth the whole time.
I dated one guy for nearly four months last year — proper lefty, went on every march, donated to every GoFundMe. In bed? Absolute starfish with a side of performance anxiety. Every single time he’d finish and then hit me with the “Did you…?” and I’d lie through my teeth because I couldn’t be arsed with the conversation. Until one night I just couldn’t anymore.
I sat up, pulled the hoodie over my head and said, “No, actually. I didn’t. And I haven’t in the last three months either.”
The silence was deafening.
He looked genuinely shocked. Hurt, even. Like I’d betrayed him by not performing satisfaction for his ego. Then came the classic: “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Babes. I wanted to scream. *Because I’ve been saying it with my body for months and you weren’t listening.*
That’s the pattern, though. They want us to be the teachers. The guides. The patient, nurturing feminists who explain, gently and without raising our voices, exactly where our clit is and how to touch it without treating it like a scratch card.
I’m done with the teaching.
I’m done with the emotional labour of pretending bad sex is fine.
I’m done with men who think “enthusiastic consent” means we enthusiastically agree to do all the work.
The worst ones are the ones who’ve read a couple of articles. You know the type. They’ve discovered the clitoris exists — congratulations, have a sticker — but they still treat it like an optional extra. Like it’s some mysterious button they can press once and then go back to the main event.
One guy actually said to me, mid-sex, “Tell me what you like.”
So I did. I told him. Slowly. Patiently. Like I was explaining WiFi to my nan.
He tried for about ninety seconds, got bored, and went back to what he was doing before. Then afterwards? You guessed it. “Did you cum?”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my own rage.
Look, I’m not saying every man is incapable. I’ve slept with a couple who actually knew what they were doing. Who paid attention. Who asked questions *before* we got naked and then listened to the answers. Who didn’t treat my pleasure like a bonus level they might unlock if they mashed the buttons hard enough.
They exist. They’re just rarer than a Tory with principles.
But most of them? They’re coasting on the myth that if they get themselves off, the job’s done. Porn has completely fried their brains. They’ve watched so much of it that real sex feels like a glitchy simulation where the woman is supposed to cum from penetration alone while making those perfect porn moans and never once asking for anything in return.
And when reality doesn’t match the fantasy? They just ask the question and hope we’ll lie.
I’m thirty in a couple of months. Thirty. I’ve been having sex for over half my life now and I can count on one hand the number of men who’ve made me cum without me basically drawing them a map.
That’s not normal. That’s not “bad luck.” That’s a system. A quiet, everyday patriarchy that tells men their pleasure is the main character and ours is… optional. Nice if it happens. But not required.
And the “Did you cum?” question is the cherry on top of that shit sundae. It’s the polite little bow they tie on their own selfishness. The way they outsource the emotional work of their failure to us.
I’ve started doing something different lately.
I don’t lie anymore.
Last month I matched with another one — glasses, protest pics, the full works. We got back to his place. Things were heating up. He was doing the usual enthusiastic but clueless routine. I stopped him halfway through.
“Listen,” I said, dead calm. “If you have to ask me afterwards whether I came, the answer’s already no.”
He blinked. Looked proper confused. “What?”
I spelled it out. “Your job isn’t to finish and then check the scoreboard. Your job is to pay attention. To listen. To care whether I’m actually enjoying this or just performing for your ego. If you can’t tell, then we stop.”
He got defensive. Of course he did. Started mumbling about pressure and how it’s hard for men too.
I just pulled my jeans back on and said, “Pressure? Babes, try being a woman who’s expected to fake it for twenty years so some bloke doesn’t feel bad about himself.”
Then I left.
Felt amazing, actually. Proper empowering.
But here’s the thing I keep coming back to in the group chat, late at night when we’re all half-cut on cheap wine and truth: why do we keep protecting them? Why do we keep softening the blow?
Because we’re kind. Because we’ve been socialised to be nice even when they’re selfish. Because somewhere deep down we still think it’s our job to make them feel like good men.
Fuck that.
The next time some bloke rolls over with that hopeful little “Did you cum?” I’m not going to smile and lie. I’m going to look him dead in the eye and say:
“No. And the fact that you have to ask means you weren’t paying attention.”
Then I’ll get dressed, order myself an Uber, and go home to my own bed where at least I know how to finish the job.
Because here’s the truth, babes. We deserve better than this. We deserve partners who are curious about our bodies instead of entitled to them. Who see sex as a team sport instead of a solo wank with extra steps. Who don’t need a written report at the end to know whether they did a good job.
Until then? I’m keeping the Coven updated. I’m writing the threads. I’m telling the messy, sweaty, infuriating truth.
And if some bloke reads this and gets defensive? Good. Maybe he’ll finally learn something.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a fresh pack of batteries and zero patience for mediocre dick.
Welcome to the coven, hun.
Let’s stop pretending.
— Emma x
