The Orgasm Gap Year: What I Learned Taking a Break From Trying to Come

They say if you love something, set it free. I wasn’t sure that applied to orgasms, but one night—after a particularly awkward tangle involving three pillows, a silent toy, and someone earnestly whispering “is it working yet?”—I decided to find out.

I stopped trying to come.

No moaning theatrics. No goal-setting. No internal monologue like “you got this, champ.” Just… letting go. Not in the sexy way. In the Buddhist, slightly resentful, “screw it, I’ll just lie here like a snack wrap” kind of way.

What was supposed to be a night off turned into a week, which turned into a month, which accidentally spiraled into what I now call my Orgasm Gap Year—twelve months where I stopped chasing climaxes and started asking: what happens when pleasure isn’t the destination?

It started with burnout (and maybe a little spite)

I didn’t intend to take a sabbatical from coming. Like most people with a complicated relationship to productivity, I assumed every self-touch session needed to end in fireworks. If it didn’t, I felt like I failed. Like a barista who forgot the foam art. What’s the point of the drink if it’s not a swan?

But then I realized something dark and kind of hilarious: even my solo sessions had started to feel like performance reviews. I’d go in with intention. Light a candle. Cue up the jazz. Tell myself things like, “Tonight, I deserve this.” And then halfway through I’d get distracted by my own thighs or start wondering if I needed to re-caulk the bathtub.

The orgasm wasn’t elusive—it was exhausted. And frankly, so was I.

What I thought would happen (disaster)

Let’s be clear: I thought this was a terrible idea. Who stops trying to orgasm and expects good things to follow? I assumed the following:

• I’d lose my sex drive entirely
• I’d feel broken and weirdly Victorian
• My body would stage a tiny riot and demand I “hurry up and finish already”

But none of those things happened. Instead, I got… curious.

What actually happened (surprise)

With the pressure off, I found myself enjoying things I used to barrel past on the way to the finish line. Texture. Rhythm. Heat. That weird little goosebump that happens behind your knees when you breathe in at the right moment.

I also started to notice how much of my previous experience had been performative. Not just with others—but with myself. I was staging sex like a movie scene, complete with soundtrack and climax and denouement. But what if sex was more like jazz? What if it wandered a bit?

I also stopped lying to myself. Like admitting that certain go-to positions weren’t working anymore. Or that maybe I didn’t want sex on Tuesday, I just wanted a sandwich and someone to rub my feet.

Okay but why does this matter?

Because we’ve been taught that orgasms are the reward. That they’re what makes sex “successful.” That they’re what makes us “normal.” But this mindset does more than just add pressure—it shapes the way we experience our bodies. It turns pleasure into a scorecard.

If you don’t come, what was it even for?

I’ll tell you what: connection. Exploration. Sometimes just joy in the absurdity of trying. There’s a whole universe of sensuality between “take off your pants” and “collapse in glory.”

What I learned from abstaining

Not coming for a year did some weird things to my brain, in a good way. Here’s what stood out:

• I became more playful: Without the need to “make it work,” I tried weird stuff. Ice cubes. Feathers. Reading erotica in French even though I only understood every third word.
• I rediscovered non-sexual touch: Back scratches. Arm stroking. Hair play. All suddenly hot again.
• My body became less reactive to stress and more curious: Instead of shutting down, I started tuning in. “What does this feel like?” replaced “Is this working yet?”

And shockingly, when I did eventually come again (accidentally, during what was supposed to be a test of a new toy for this very blog), it was like a thunderclap. Not because it had been missing, but because I was no longer demanding it perform on cue.

Are orgasms bad? No, dummy.

Let me be clear: Orgasms are amazing. This is not a smear campaign. It’s just a reminder that they’re not the only thing.

Sometimes, when we focus too hard on the prize, we lose track of the present. And sex—especially solo sex—is one of the few places where the present actually matters.

How to take your own Orgasm Gap Year

Not ready to ditch the big O entirely? That’s okay. You don’t need to go full monk. But if you’re curious, here are some ways to loosen your grip on the goal:

• Spend a week exploring your body without trying to come. Just notice.
• Use a toy backwards—not literally, but with no intention to finish
• Use your imagination more than your fingers
• Try to rewire the reward system: what felt good—not what “worked”

You might find that you still come—but without trying. Or that you don't. And it doesn’t matter. Either way, you’ll learn something.

The Orgasm Gap Year… ends?

Eventually, I came back to orgasms. Not because I missed them, but because I missed the weird joy of it all. The surprise. The surrender. The stupid noises. I came back because I wanted to, not because I was supposed to. And that made all the difference.

So maybe that’s the point. Not to abandon climax, but to remind ourselves it’s not the only measure of success. That we can be whole and worthy and sensually alive whether or not we come.

And for those wondering—yes. The bathtub did get re-caulked. Eventually.