The other day, I cuddled up to my favorite naked bed buddy and tapped into the Web’s fine array of pornographic cinema. We were curious about the jaw-dropper that everyone’s been buzzing about.

Sasha Grey is the “crazy bitch” that does it all… in every hole. At the tender age of 18, she acquired the reputation of being “brought by Satan, himself,” licking toilets, drinking urine, and compelling dicks to tear up her anus just like she compelled Tyra Banks to tear out her hair extensions during an appearance on the supermodel’s talk show.

As much as I think that Tyra is evil incarnate, I’m behind her in asserting that young Sasha’s got some issues. I don’t agree with Tyra’s pooh-poohing of the porn star profession — as long as she made her fortune in jizz-worthy Sports Illustrated spreads, her say in people’s career choices is as valid as my left ass cheek’s – but rather, I find Ms. Grey’s work disturbingly forced. Watching a faceless older man take his 10-incher out of her anus and shove it down her throat, inducing tears and bile, somehow the words “Put it down my throat, I love to taste my ass!” seem more like a 6-year-old repeating her parents’ swear words than a genuine cry of desire.

What disturbed me the most was my strange empathy for Sasha – as if I had been in her shoes. And although at 18, ass-to-mouth deep throating was as foreign to me as “The Iraq” is to Miss Teen South Carolina, I was in her shoes. Once upon a time, I too went through the motions and blindly recited my lines. I was a serial orgasm-faker.

Many girls (and, oddly enough, some guys) are familiar with this practice. Bodies are good and sweaty, breathing’s good and heavy, but the top of Ecstasy Mountain is nowhere in sight. So, out of desire to keep the love train moving, you take your cue and bellow away. If you’ve done this once or twice in your life, it’s cute. More than five times, it’s disconcerting. Every time, like I used to? It’s a major problem.

Much of my faking had to do with misinformation. For years, I thought a vaginal orgasm was a given for most women – no one ever told me that only about 30 percent can achieve this elusive form of climax. I thought I was broken, and that any attention drawn to my ineptness would only kill the mood and exasperate my partner. Thus, I deemed my orgasm unnecessary and honed my fake until it was Oscar-worthy. I relished the self-assurance it brought to each of my partners.

The sickening thing about the role I played was the way I justified it in my head. I took satisfaction in fooling those I didn’t care about – arrogant chumps who weren’t worth the humbling. Contrarily, for the partners I did care about, my faking was an act of selflessness; I cared more about their confidence than my own pleasure. In fact, the closer I grew to a partner, the more convinced I became of my own act. It became so second nature that I rarely regarded the fact that it was feigned. To me, it was an emotional climax; if I didn’t care about the difference, why would he?

An honest heart-to-heart, a reluctant confession and a nearly destroyed relationship later, I discovered that a worthy partner does care about the difference – to the point of feeling deeply betrayed. By deceiving him, I’d put a block on a flourishing six-month relationship. In his eyes, we weren’t partners getting to know each other better every day; I was the puppet master pulling his ego strings. It brought into question nearly everything he thought he knew about me. We had to start over completely.

Trust me: sex improves by leaps and bounds when both parties are transparent. Reaching the peak is all the more rewarding when mutual care is taken on the climb. Even if you don’t reach it, you’ve still had a hell of a time. As a genuine and healthier participant, I give all showmen this advice: Don’t give an asshole empty confidence or fool the ones you love. At the end of the day, there’s only one person getting cheated every time: you.