His body slackens and his weight falls on me. It’s over. Finished. Finito. The deed done and by God, hopefully, it was good.

Then it starts: the trickles of sweat cool; the skin feels taunt and sticky; my mouth is dry. After the mountainous rush of endorphins that mark the expected climax fades, I am left with a startling awkward silence

What can be said? What should be said? What must be said? Anything? Everything?

He moves off me. The silence drags on. Enter my most unfortunate post-coital quirk: a dire need for communication, for affirmation, for acknowledgement. It seeps into the moment, cajoling me into the irrepressible urge to ignore those positive chemicals that are coursing joyously from vagina to brainstem. Before I’ve even caught my breath, I begin the process of worrisome evaluation, otherwise known as the ‘was it good for you?’ examination.

This is the uncomfortable epilogue to many of my sexual encounters with first-time partners. I’m not referring to those encounters that were obviously unfulfilling and don’t need much examination afterward to know it was bad. I’m talking about those completely ambiguous romps that leave me wondering what the hell just happened in this bed (or maybe on top of this pile of old winter coats stored in my friend’s basement). The kind of rumination that shoots down my confidence purely by inner monologue and ruins what was probably a totally awesome fuckfest. I analyze my every movement, moan, facial expression, dirty word, and then decide that I completely suck and this guy will probably never talk to me again.

Within two minutes of the orgasm, I have become completely crestfallen and insecure. And my hopes were so high!

What did I do wrong? Why am I so sure it wasn’t good for him?

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t said so. In fact, he hasn’t said damn thing since that last labored grunt. In those two minutes of deathly quietness, the dude hasn’t spoken a word to me, hasn’t tendered any affectionate coo in my direction nor made any eye contact. He’s just lying in the same position he landed in once he vacated his position on top of me, with his eyes closed and his mouth sort of slack. I can’t bring myself to break the ice and encourage a dialogue. The intimacy of the moment is completely lost.

It’s been two minutes and I’ve already decided I never want to fuck him again. This first time with this guy has turned into the last time.

It was always like this. I was always wracked with this sudden spasm of self-deprecation after the first time with a guy. In my mind, my vagina abruptly became as undesirable a passage as the straits of Scylla and Charibdis. I could practically feel regret and loathing radiating off him. Yet I was too timid to speak up and simply ask “Was it good for you?” I think even if he answered that it was the most incredible night of his life, I wouldn’t have felt any better. The problem wasn’t the silence. The problem was me and my need for validation after the fact. But I was at a loss at how to shut off the self-evaluation that sprung up so naturally after sex. When my partner took too long to give me some sign of appreciation for rocking his world, I used it as a confirmation of my inadequacy.

It was a one night stand that cured me. The kind of one night stand you go into prepared. I liked the guy, he liked me. I knew he wasn’t a worthy long term investment. But I still want a piece of it, and the feeling was mutual. Still he was not the kind of man a woman should get emotionally involved with. It was because of this danger that I steeled myself against caring about how this guy would feel about me afterwards. I went in with a blank slate and no expectations beyond great sex. It would be a “Fuck him, then ‘fuck him!’” encounter. In the end, it was one of the most intimate experiences of my life. But like all the rest, the experience was punctuated with a deafening silence.

This time I wasn’t wrestling with inner-criticism brought on the need for reassurance. With every other partner, I wanted a man who would instantly roll over and tell me how perfect and wonderful I made him feel, giving me a verbal gold star. I wanted compliments and acceptance. I wanted a stroked pussy and a stroked ego. What I usually got was sex where I waited so long for flattery and encouragement that I ended up missing the boat, sex where I completely ignored my own physical experience and concentrated only on his. This habitually left me disappointed and discouraged.

Not this time. I went into the encounter determined to be selfish. I finally focused on what sex did to me, not to my partner. As a result, my pleasure soared and that ending silence communicated a host of mutual understanding. My previous preoccupation with what my partner was experiencing and how that would reflect on me afterward had been obscuring my own experience. What had been missing from my previous encounters had not been the pretty words that I desperately wanted to fill the silence; it had been me. I realized that nothing he could say before during or after could validate me. Only I could do that.

Once I did validate myself, I heard the noise behind the quiet. What happens to everyone in the aftermath of the act is a deeply personal experience that can’t be shared, but it can be experienced in a parallel fashion. The post-coital silence is almost anything but silent. There is an explosion of communicative vibration and physicality that surpasses language and speaks volumes.

Now, of course, there are people out there who utterly ignore their partner after climax and pretty much every moment after that, without appreciation or graciousness. There are also legions of great talkers who are more than happy to give a play-by play review of the horizontal shuffle. And, of course, there are the rare specimens, those partners who will fill your ears with warm, romantic praises of your beauty and sexual talent.

But if anyone should find themselves locked in strained silence wondering ‘was it good for him?’, answer the question yourself first and worry about him later. Be selfish. Enjoy some self-discovery and don’t over-think it! After all, sex isn’t a cerebral activity. Let the silence reign on! When he finally turns over and throws his arm around you, don’t worry! It’s (probably) not a pity-spooning.