Exploring the pleasure gap
How long can one call sex a mere distraction before admitting they enjoy it?
The answer seems clear for Lil Jhola, who famously rapped "5 mahina ma 50 lakh, 5 mahina ma 50 ota keti myachikney " in his song Myachikney. He figured it out long ago, embracing casual sex with a calculated ease that many, like him, eventually come to understand. His approach is so systematic that, to hypothetically achieve his goal of sleeping with 50 women in five months, he’d need to have sex with approximately 10 women per month, which breaks down to roughly 1 woman every 3 days over the five months.
For Pragati, though, the answer came much more slowly, buried under layers of denial and discomfort. There was a time when she hated everything about sex—the physicality, the emotions, the vulnerability. Pragati once dreaded the idea of her naked body being seen and judged by someone who couldn’t truly value it for what it was. But, like many things in life, her relationship with sex evolved it transformed itself from a feared disruption to a casual indulgence. Today, sex holds the same everyday comfort as her morning cup of tea—a simple pleasure that brings a sense of ease and satisfaction. This isn’t to suggest that she has sex as often as she drinks tea, but rather that both bring a similar kind of warmth and fulfilment to her life. The intimacy of sex and the comfort of a good cup of tea have, in their ways, become instinctive sources of contentment for her.
For Pragati, sex wasn’t some grand feminist act meant to challenge the patriarchy. It was simpler—an exchange of desire, a mutual connection based on reciprocity of pleasure, or, at least, it was supposed to be. Yet, those who couldn’t comprehend the idea of freely embracing one's bodily anatomy, seized every opportunity to label her choices as reckless, insisting that consent, when given too freely, was somehow an unforgivable offence.
Through her experiences, she had an upsetting realization: in bed, many men seemed oblivious to the concept of reciprocity. The power dynamics were often skewed towards giving rather than receiving, leaving Pragati questioning why this imbalance is so pervasive. Of the five men, Pragati was with this year, only two prioritized her pleasure. That’s a 40% "success" rate in what should be an unremarkable baseline of equitable orgasms. One might argue that five men over a year isn’t a large enough sample size to draw definitive conclusions. However, none of these encounters fell into the category of one-night stands or fleeting hookups. Each connection unfolded over multiple occasions, averaging about three separate encounters with each of the five men. This, nonetheless, reflects Pragati’s reality —each of these men, like her, was an active participant in their sex lives. A closer look at her experiences reveals that the imbalances she felt in bed were often a result of the casual nature of these relationships. Still, the numbers speak for themselves: out of the five men, only two managed to make her finish, while all five had no trouble reaching their climax. This imbalance revealed something deeper: making it painfully clear how normalized it was for men’s pleasure to take precedence.
This all raises a question: if pleasure had an SI unit, a neat measurable number, would women’s pleasure register any lower than men’s? If it could be measured the same way we measure the speed of light, boiling point of water, or wavelengths of gamma rays, would women’s pleasure be any less quantitative? Probably not. Yet, qualitatively, pleasure seems to be perceived through entirely different lenses—men’s wants are legitimized, even celebrated, while everyone else’s is scrutinized, trivialized, or shamed.
This disparity isn’t rooted in biology—it’s social conditioning. Men are often taught to view sex as conquest, an act centred on their satisfaction and their dicks, while women are conditioned to be accommodating, and or self-sacrificing. Pragati’s experiences reflected this imbalance. While the men she was with this year were those she often considered capable of understanding the deeper norms that bleed into the bedroom—emotional and intellectual intimacy, where sex is more than just physical connection—she still felt the dominance of men’s desires. Even If or when men cared about their partner's experience, they risked being labelled submissive or “too soft,” reinforcing the idea that masculinity is tied to self-centred gratification. Pragati's experiences reflect a broader trend highlighted by research: studies consistently reveal a “pleasure gap,” with women reporting fewer orgasms than their male partners. For Pragati, sex often became more about giving than receiving, and once the balance tipped, it rarely returned to equilibrium.
Disclaimer: If you know someone named Pragati—or if you’re my parents reading this—I want to make it clear: this story is entirely fictional. It’s not based on real events or real people. Any similarities are purely coincidental, and no, there’s no hidden subtext to read into.
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