Wednesday, September 28, 2022 — 7 
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Across the globe, women have 
disproportionately suffered from 
a longstanding disparity in stark 
comparison to those in Queer 
relationships: the orgasm gap. If 
you are not familiar with this phe-
nomenon, it is defined in a study 
by Grace M. Wetzel et al. as being 
“the well-established discrepancy 
in orgasm frequency between 
cisgender men and women when 
engaging in heterosexual part-
nered sex, with men having more 
orgasms than women on average.” 
While this should not be a foreign 
concept, spending four years in 
a predominantly cisgender, het-
erosexual, 
capitalism-centric 
campus has helped me put into 
perspective just how pressing it is 
that we have intentional conver-
sations about our pleasure, espe-
cially when these forces permeate 
into all aspects of our daily lives.
The term “orgasm gap” is pre-
dominantly used to refer to the 
discrepancy 
in 
orgasm 
rates 
between 
heterosexual 
women 
and men. While the term typi-
cally encompasses women’s sex-
ual experiences with men, other 
types of orgasm gaps also exist, 
such as the gaps between (a) 
women engaged in partnered sex 
versus masturbation, (b) women 
engaged in sex with other women 
versus with men and (c) women 
engaged in casual versus rela-
tionship sex, etc. according to the 
research literature.
I will specifically be exploring 
the socio-cultural significance 
of the orgasm discrepancies in 
heterosexual couples. I will also 
be cross-analyzing similar data 
representing those in the Queer 
community to illustrate that the 
orgasm gap is most prevalent in 
heterosexual relationships. This 
will highlight that, for the most 
part, straight men are indeed 
most responsible for this gap. 
More specifically, the differ-
ences in sexual behavior among 
those with varying sexualities 
are an indication of how deeply 
ingrained the patriarchy is in our 
daily rituals. To the men reading 
this, I would like to give some 
of you the benefit of the doubt; I 
am sure you may genuinely want 
to make your partner climax — 
whether that is to inflate your 
sense of self or actually meet their 
needs is another question — but 
you must first recognize that soci-
ety has misguided you in how to 
achieve this outcome consistently, 
if at all. 
Moving forward, I ask that you 
read this article with the same 
level of consideration and sensi-
tivity as you would when learning 
about any other social injustice. 
The way we approach the plea-
sure of others is a reflection of 
how we perceive the personhood 
and bodily autonomy of those we 
share such vulnerable experi-
ences with. To not acknowledge 
this fact is to deprive intimacy of 
its nuance, complexities and most 
importantly, its humanity. 
While doing extensive research 
on this topic, I have found that 
the language in these studies can 
feel a bit dense. Therefore, I will 
try my best to make this writ-
ing accessible to all audiences by 
omitting any overzealous scien-
tific jargon. If you are more curi-
ous about the specific details of 
each of the studies, they can be 
found referenced throughout the 
article. I would also like to preface 
that there is a clear discrepancy in 
the extent of research conducted 
among heterosexual couples ver-
sus Queer couples, which makes 

the data more difficult to cross-
examine across identities. None-
theless, that does not mean there 
is insufficient data to prove that 
straight men are significantly 
more responsible for the orgasm 
gap than any other group. 
In a study conducted by sexual 
health researchers, David A. Fred-
erick et al. examined a representa-
tive sample of adults in the United 
States, concluding that “hetero-
sexual men were most likely to 
say they usually-always orgasmed 
when sexually intimate (95%), fol-
lowed by gay men (89%), bisexual 
men (88%), lesbian women (86%), 
bisexual women (66%) and het-
erosexual women (65%).” Further, 
regardless of whether you’re in a 
committed relationship or a casu-
al fling, on average, 95% of het-
erosexual men ejaculate from sex, 
while only 18% of women orgasm 
from vaginal intercourse alone.
If you’re a man reading this 
and you’re thinking “nah bro my 
stroke game is crazy, I can make 
any girl cream,” please allow me 
to dispel the illusion you have 
created by providing some peer-
reviewed, statistical findings. 
When having sex with a famil-
iar partner, there were no signifi-
cant differences between orgasm 
rates for heterosexual (86%), gay 
(85%) or bisexual (78%) men. 
On the contrary, orgasms rates 
among women differed across 
sexualities, where lesbian women 
reported experiencing orgasms 
at a statistically significant high-
er rate (75%) than heterosexual 
(62%) or bisexual (58%) women. 
Another, more recent study con-
ducted by Elizabeth A. Mahar 
et al. in 2020, used a sample of 
800 undergraduate students, and 
found that 91% of men versus 
39% of women reported usually 
or always experiencing orgasm 
in partnered sex. Gay men were 
also 28% more likely than het-
erosexual men to say their part-
ners always orgasm and 16% more 
likely to say they usually-always 
orgasm. 
Interestingly, 
in 
the 
context of a familiar partner, a 
recent large-scale survey of 2,850 
individuals revealed that lesbian 
women are more likely than both 
heterosexual and bisexual women 
to orgasm during partnered sex, 
a finding subsequently replicated 
in an even larger survey of over 
50,000 dating, married, remar-
ried or cohabiting people.
Mahar et al. also found that 
for women identifying as bisex-
ual who had engaged in one-
night stands with both men and 
women, 64% reported frequently 
or always orgasming when their 
partner was a woman while only 
7% of these same women report-
ed frequently or always orgas-
ming when their partner was a 
man. In short, research finds that 
women’s orgasm rates seem to be 
context-dependent (i.e., sex with 
a man vs. another woman, casual 
vs. relationship sex), with women 
being least likely to orgasm during 
casual sex with male partners. 
You may be wondering what 
some of the reasons for these dis-
crepancies are, to which we can 
point to our social organization 
of sexuality and cultural scripts 
surrounding the act of sex. The 
disproportionate value we have 
placed on a man’s pleasure ver-
sus a woman’s informs how we 
behave in the bedroom. This 
valuation is often based on one’s 
exposure to the idea that women’s 
bodies are meant for procreation 
and, in turn, that sex is intended 
to be pleasing only to the man. It 
has been found that many women 
have even internalized this belief 
with existing research indicating 
that women feel an obligation to 

soothe the male ego by orgasming 
during intercourse. 
One qualitative study found 
that female participants reported 
being concerned about hurting 
their male partner’s confidence if 
they did not have an intercourse-
based orgasm. Further, these 
women believed that asking their 
partners for clitoral stimulation 
would “hurt their partners’ feel-
ings,” where this prioritization 
of their partner suggests a lack 
of entitlement to sexual pleasure. 
Since women’s bodies have been 
commodified throughout history 
for the sake of procreation, many 
of our instincts in the bedroom 
derive from this generational 
trauma. Women are also less likely 
to communicate to their partners 
how they need to be stimulated 
in order to orgasm, each of these 
being factors positively correlated 
with reaching orgasm. 
The 
overwhelming 
concen-
tration on penetrative sex in 
heterosexual relationships, stem-
ming from the emphasis on male 
pleasure and women’s ability to 
procreate, further explains these 
findings. While reports vary 
depending on how the question 
is worded, studies overwhelm-
ingly suggest that only about 18% 
of women indicate that vaginal 
penetration alone is sufficient for 
orgasm to occur. Furthermore, 
when a convenience sample of 
over 500 undergraduate students 
was asked to indicate “their most 
reliable route to orgasm,” only 
4% indicated penetration alone. 
Instead, 43% said they most reli-
ably orgasmed when pairing pen-
etration with clitoral stimulation 
(e.g., with hands or vibrators), 
and 34% said they most reliably 
orgasmed during sexual activities 
focusing exclusively on clitoral 
stimulation (e.g., oral sex, manual 
stimulation, vibrator stimulation). 
On top of this, it has been found 
that men largely overestimate the 
consistency of orgasms for their 
partners, most likely as a result 
of their misconceptions on how 
to please. Men tend to feel emas-
culated when they are unable to 
perform well during sex — wheth-
er this means not lasting long 
enough or thrusting hard enough 
— therefore, this overinflation of 
self-perceived skill aims to pro-
tect their self-image.
So why does this matter? While 
the orgasm gap in and of itself is 
problematic, its existence has 
wider implications for society’s 
perception of women’s bodies and 
their humanity. No matter how 
progressive you perceive yourself 
to be as a man, the data shows 
that you are most likely reinforc-
ing patriarchal notions of sex 
whether you’re aware of it or not. 
The existence of these patriarchal 
structures is not necessarily your 
own fault, but you will always 
benefit from it, and by being 
complicit in this system, you are 
exploiting your male privilege in 
not challenging these misogynis-
tic perceptions.
To challenge this, we must first 
acknowledge the deep-seated his-
tory of the colonization of wom-
en’s bodies to serve the needs of 
man. We have quite literally built 
our entire society on the backs of 
our women, with their bodies his-
torically being seen as a means to 
an end: to procreate, expand the 
workforce and ultimately maxi-
mize productivity. This reinforces 
the idea that women’s pleasure 
is not a necessary component of 
sexual experiences; rather, their 
bodies exist to serve the needs 
of external societal forces at the 
expense of their personal needs. 

The orgasm gap

Courtesy of Rita Sayegh

KAILANA DEJOIE
MiC Columnist

Slipping through my fingers

“Slipping Through My Fin-
gers,” from ABBA’s album The 
Visitors, is an indie-meets-folk-
and-pop song that is anything but 
unknown. Having garnered hun-
dreds of millions of streams, form-
ing multiple TikTok trends and 
stemming from one of the most 
well-known pop groups, the song 
is definitely well cherished. Yet, 
the song means more to me than 
just a background audio or catchy 
tune. When I listen to this song, I 
can’t help but think of my parents 
and how they must feel now: about 
how for the first time in 23 years, 
both their children are out of the 
house, whereas silence now coats 
the walls, pouring down from the 
melancholy ceilings. The song is 
about a mother’s realization of 
how fast her daughter is growing 
up as she gets ready for school — 
how she wishes to reach out and 
grab what’s left of her daughter’s 
childhood and hold her close to 
her heart forever but is unable to. 
The song reminds me of my own 
parents, but more specifically, 
my father. Perhaps it’s because 
my mother has always been more 
vocal about how she feels about us 
leaving. Maybe it’s because I never 
thought to wonder how my father 
felt. Or maybe it is simply because 
he is an ABBA fan. But regardless 
of the reason, for those three min-
utes and 53 seconds, I can’t help 
but think about my father and my 
relationship.
My father never shared much 
of the music he listened to with 
us. Since I can remember, a silence 
during our car rides was evaded 
by blasting whatever artists my 
brother and I fixated ourselves 
on at the time. It started with 
the soundtrack from “Barney & 
Friends.” Over time, we transi-
tioned from listening to Hannah 
Montana, to then switching to 
Nicki Minaj, before finally mov-
ing on to Faye Webster. My father 
didn’t complain too much about 
not getting aux. He did, however, 

comment on and critique every 
song we played. He’d praise my 
brother’s pick of Kanye West’s 
808s & Heartbreak album until he 
focused on the lyrics, when he’d 
critique both the explicit nature 
of the song and us for choosing to 
listen to it. Other times he would 
forcefully drum his fingers onto 
the steering wheel, missing every 
beat by a second, overpower-
ing the sound of the actual beat 
when Selena Gomez & the Scene 
was on. Occasionally, he’d nod his 
head or gently tap his leg, making 
a crinkly noise from the material 
of his shorts, when I’d play Katy 
Perry. He’d overly compliment 
Taylor Swift’s soft Folklore and 
ask if it was her newest album 
that he heard about on the news 
and complain about how loud 
Icona Pop’s “I Love It” was every 
time I played it during elementary 
school. But every once in a while, 
he’d queue up some Bon Jovi and 
ABBA, a Michael Jackson CD or a 
few Tamil ones from a movie he’d 
made us watch multiple times and 
refuse to change it no matter how 
much we pleaded, pushing our 
hands away every time we tried to 
reach for his phone or the CD eject 
button. We complained, even more 
than he would about our music. To 
us his music was antiquated, older 
than the thrifted dresser plopped 
in the guest room that my parents 
bought when they first moved 
to America. It’s older than the 
scratched green Toyota Camry 
that has sat still for years in front 

of our house with broken brakes 
and an obnoxiously loud engine 
that my father somehow refuses to 
get rid of, and older than my moth-
er’s collection of crumpled sarees 
that haven’t been worn in over 25 
years, carefully placed in broken 
suitcases that smelled like faded 
mothballs above my mother’s clos-
et. It was old, and seven-year-old 
me hated every second of it.
I don’t remember the first time 
I heard the song. I can’t remem-
ber if it was one of the few ABBA 
songs my father played during 
a road trip, if it was on the way 
home after he picked me up from 
elementary school or if it was a 
song I just stumbled upon on one 
of my long playlist-making nights, 
searching the entirety of my Spo-
tify recommended for the perfect 
song to fall asleep to. But I do 
remember the first time it meant 
something.
I was sitting in my father’s 
makeshift study that he first 
built for my brother and me to do 
our homework next to him as he 
worked. My father was cleaning 
and reorganizing the study, which 
had spent the last year filled with 
almost as much clutter as a few of 
the houses on “Hoarders.” In the 
back corner of the room above a 
giant roll of orange wire too heavy 
for me to pick up sat the new vinyl 
player my brother and I had got-
ten him for Christmas, which he 
had just mounted onto the wall. 

ROSHNI MOHAN
MiC Columnist

Roshni Mohan/MiC

Redefining everyday life 
through my film camera

Film photography is one of my 
favorite new hobbies. I hesitate 
to use the word “hobby” because 
I think claiming a hobby implies 
you’re only an amateur or novice 
at it. In its most traditional form, 
film photography consists of tak-
ing pictures on a camera by expos-
ing frames on a film roll. While I 
don’t consider myself a photogra-
phy expert, I take my film camera 
everywhere because it reminds me 
to search for things to appreciate in 
the moment, instead of waiting for 
a reason to take a picture to share 
online. Taking film pictures is a 
much more conscious and inten-
tional process than taking pictures 
on my phone. Instagram, Snapchat, 
TikTok and other popular camera-
based apps have rendered taking 
pictures on my phone a thoughtless 
process. It’s so easy for me to use my 
camera any time of the day to check 
my appearance or take a picture of 
a flier for an event I saw on the Diag 
(that I think I’ll look at later but that 
will instead just take up storage on 
my phone). In contrast, taking out 
my film camera from the bottom of 
my bag, gesturing for my friends to 
scooch into the frame and adjusting 
the shutter and zoom to perfectly 
capture the setting is a much more 
deliberate process. It could also be 
that using a “real” physical camera 
whose only function is to take pic-
tures adds purpose to the photo-
taking process, in contrast to my 
phone which also serves as my cal-
culator, notepad and my main mode 
of communication with friends 

and family. Taking film pictures 
requires an acknowledgment of the 
beauty of the moment, an apprecia-
tion of the candidness of everyday 
life and the decision to capture an 
image to add to your growing roll. 
Two summers ago, I developed 
my first film roll. I had just finished 
using a disposable camera after 
deciding to join the recent revival 
of film photography that had been 
circulating the internet for almost 
a year. I developed pictures of the 
sunset from my last day of high 
school, trips to the lake with my 
best friends, my sister’s visits home 
and even moments when I was just 
by myself and felt like using my 
camera. I was reminded of count-
less memories that I hadn’t even 
remembered making, like when 
I started to go on picnics almost 
every week, my budding painting 
hobby and a questionable amount of 
boba runs. As I flipped through the 
remaining pictures, I felt a grow-
ing excitement, as I was unsure of 
what other forgotten moments I 
had collected. At the same time, 
though, I wondered how I could be 
living the same life as the one I saw 
on the roll, because I didn’t see the 
beauty in these moments until they 
had passed. It’s easy to think that 
your life is mundane and boring if 
it doesn’t meet the unrealistic stan-
dards we see on social media. I find 
myself looking through pictures 
from the influencers I follow, won-
dering how they manage to balance 
their work, social life and “making 
Instagram casual,” all while look-
ing put together. My film pictures 
gave me a new perspective on this, 
as they presented memories that 
seemed casual in fleeting time but 

were incredibly meaningful to me 
as I looked back on them. Unlike 
my phone, my film camera took 
away my ability to see my pictures 
instantly after I had taken them. 
At first, I was impatient and rest-
less at losing control of how the 
photos turned out, but the devel-
opment process gave me time to 
continue living my life and absorb 
experiences with more awareness. 
When I got my roll developed, I 
was able to revisit these moments 
with a different mindset — I wasn’t 
worried or bothered about how I 
looked or how the background was 
captured anymore; all I cared for 
were the memories and the story 
that accompanied each picture. I 
was able to see that my picnic trips 
were my way of relaxing in nature, 
my painting hobby was a form of 
meditation for me and my countless 
boba runs became my favorite way 
to catch up with hometown friends 
and try new drinks. 
After my first experience 
with a film camera, I kept up 
with my hobby and I looked 
forward to collecting more 
souvenirs. I stopped waiting 
for moments that were “good 
enough” to make my roll, and 
just took pictures of whatever 
I liked. Moments spent alone, 
such as reading outside, waiting 
for the sunset or redecorating 
my room, became more sig-
nificant. I used to be incredibly 
uncomfortable with the idea of 
being alone and spending time 
with myself because it made 
me feel like I was missing out 
on what was happening around 
me, and I quite frankly didn’t 
know what to do with myself. 
I attribute a great deal of these 
feelings to social media and 
the pressure it casts on people 
to constantly indulge in every-
body’s business but their own. 
There seems to always be a cat-
egory to box people in based 
on their social media presence, 
and I hate the looming stress of 
having to curate your feed to 
somehow perfectly encompass 
the person you are. I learned, 
though, that our Instagram 
feeds are not a reflection of who 
we are, but of who we want to be. 

SAHANA NANDIGAMA
MiC Columnist

Sahana Nandigama/MiC

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

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