Don’t Tell Me Where the Clit Is (Unless You Want Me to Learn Something)
- Rick Hogart
- 6 days ago
- 4 min read
By Rick Hogart
I once walked out of a hookup mid-makeout because someone tried to show me where her clit was.
That’s it. That’s the opening. I wish I were joking.
It was a few years ago. Her name was Tania, grew up in Portland, lived in Silver Lake, wore oversized sweaters even in summer. The first time I saw her, she was rolling a cigarette with one hand and balancing a Topo Chico in the other, arguing with a DJ about Kate Bush. We met at a rooftop birthday in Echo Park. She had this low, smoky voice like she’d been born tired of everyone’s bullshit—and kissed like she’d been waiting for the right mouth to show up.
One drink turned into a walk, the walk turned into her couch, and next thing I knew, I was trying to make her toes curl. We’re rolling around, heat building, hands roaming. I go down on her like the confident man I thought I was. Ten minutes in, she gently shifts her hips and says,
“A little to the left.”
I freeze. Not because I didn’t hear her, but because some primal part of my brain took that as an insult. Not a suggestion. Not a helpful note. An insult.
So what did I say?
“I know what I’m doing.”
Yup. Full ego defense mode, activated. Chest puffed. Eyes offended. Dignity wounded. I might as well have said, “Trust me, babe, I’ve watched the tutorials.” She looked at me, pulled down her T-shirt like the scene was over, and said,
“Jesus. Why do you guys always get like this?”
I wanted to argue. To defend my honor as a man who once made a girl orgasm during a camping trip in Big Sur. Instead, I just sat there like a sulky teenager. She didn’t yell. She didn’t even raise her voice. She just said something that lodged in my chest like a splinter:
“I’m literally telling you how I like it. You wouldn’t get mad if I asked how you liked your dick sucked.”
Reader, I left. Half-hard and half-humiliated. Told myself she was being bossy. Controlling. Rude, even.
Then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
That night, I texted my buddy Gio. He’s my go-to guy for crisis management (and also the only man I know who uses coconut oil and therapy regularly). I expected him to laugh, maybe say,
“Yeah, chicks are confusing, man.”
Instead, he just replied:
“Bro… maybe just take the note.”
That sentence cracked something open.
I started replaying my sexual past like a bad highlight reel. There was Natasha, who once asked me mid-action if I could try using my tongue in little circles. I remember going stiff, not in the good way, and doing it like I was following IKEA instructions. Emotionless. Like I was proving a point.
Or Juno. Sweet, musical, and wildly vocal. She once took my hand and moved it lower, slower, and I moved it back. As if I were in charge of her pleasure. Like her input was inconvenient.
And that’s when it hit me:I wasn’t actually trying to give women pleasure.I was trying to be good at sex.
Big difference.
A week after the Tania debacle, I messaged her.
I didn’t ask for a second chance. I just told her she was right. That I’d been a dick. That I was realizing I had a thing about control and feedback and all the things you’re not supposed to admit during brunch.
She said thanks. That was it. I didn’t expect more. But we did end up getting coffee a few weeks later. She told me how often women had to “coach men through sex without making them feel bad.” How draining that is. How unfair it is to have to manage someone else’s ego just to have a good time. How even asking for something during sex can feel like playing Jenga, you never know which brick will make the whole structure collapse.
I asked her, “So… what do you do when a guy listens?”
She smiled and said,
“I f***ing cum.”
Fair enough.
Since then, things have changed for me in bed.
Not in some magical tantric way where I wear beads and whisper affirmations into the labia. I just… listen now.
When someone says “more pressure,” I don’t hear “you suck.” I hear “let’s make this better.”
When someone says “slower,” I don’t hear “you’re doing it wrong.” I hear “I trust you enough to guide you.”
Sex, it turns out, isn’t a performance. It’s jazz. It’s co-creation. It’s two people figuring out how to play the same note with different instruments.
The irony? Once I stopped needing to be good, I actually got good.
So fellas, if your partner tells you how to touch them, maybe don’t get offended. Get curious. Take the note. It’s not a blow to your manhood. It’s a cheat code.
And trust me: clits love a good listener.
—Rick
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