LIZ JONES: I'm proof wives who earn more DO fake it in the bedroom

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Yes! Yes! Yes! My secret is out at last.

Hats off to the intrepid researchers who have unearthed the truth that every wife whose salary outstrips her husband’s has kept to herself for years: well-paid wives are more likely to fake it in the bedroom.<br>Newly published research from the University of South , which quizzed more than 600 women, found that those with a good salary but an under-achieving husband — or, as I liked to call mine, ‘low-earning, monosyllabic, chippy lump’ — are twice as likely to fake an orgasm.<br>All of which means the wool will finally be pulled from my ex-husband’s eyes and he will realise, Billy Crystal fashion, in that classic scene from When Harry Met Sally, that he didn’t make the earth move or even tremble during our four-year marriage.<br>Not just because Nirpal, my ex, was lazy and had no imagination or technique, despite having had lots of girlfriends before me.

(Women of Britain, you really should speak up, point, draw diagrams if necessary, before you pass on a dud to the rest of us. If you cherished this informative article and also you want to get guidance concerning เครดิตฟรี kindly stop by our page. )<br>No, my lack of being able to achieve sexual pleasure was entirely down to his resentment at my successful career as editor of a glossy woman’s magazine, my salary, my expense account, my minor fame.<br> Yes!

Yes! Yes! My secret is out at last. Hats off to the intrepid researchers who have unearthed the truth that every wife whose salary outstrips her husband’s has kept to herself for years: well-paid wives are more likely to fake it in the bedroom. Pictured: Liz Jones and her now ex-husband, Nirpal Singh Dhaliwal<br>His eyes would roll whenever we were out for dinner and yet another reader would come over to our table to compliment my writing.<br>All of which meant he liked to undermine me.

He would pretend to gag at my cooking, tease me about my shyness, my age — I was 16 years his senior — and my intellect. None of this, needless to say, boded well for our time in the bedroom.<br>Because if you chip away at a woman’s self-esteem in order to feel better about your own insecurities, a woman isn’t going to feel free enough to truly relax.
Certainly, I never lost myself in the moment as I was always thinking, ‘Oh God, I must look awful from this angle.'<br>Why didn’t he notice I was faking it? Did he really think women achieved ecstasy without any effort on the man’s part?

And if he did notice I was faking it, why didn’t he try more?<br>You may read this and think why didn’t I just put on a winceyette nightdress, open a big book, and refuse sex if it was so unsatisfactory?<br> If he did notice I was faking, why didn’t he try more? Because high-flying women, seduced by our idols on Sex And The City and the pages of Vogue, believe that having wild sex each night is part of the deal, along with the nice car, big house, designer clothes and luxury holidays.

We don’t admit defeat easily.<br>And, like all female bigwigs, I prided myself on knowing how to get the best out of underlings — which at first is by being nice to them.<br>Which was exactly what I did when we first started dating.
I thought it didn’t matter that he earned a pittance. I even encouraged him to give up his job — on a local BBC radio show — to write a novel. I got him a literary agent, read his work, gave him notes. I flattered him, boosting his fragile ego.<br>I was generous, too, giving him a credit card.

Still no progress in the bedroom department.<br>Then I switched into strident mode, as any alpha woman does. It’s a tactic that works well with employees, the man at EDF, the gardener and the cleaner. Less so, I discovered, with the husband.<br>I told him what I wanted in bed but, just as he wouldn’t pick up the used cat bowls, he wouldn’t listen. I asked him to talk dirty and he refused.

So, to keep the peace, the illusion my marriage was working, to not completely emasculate him, I faked it.<br>Most often I did so just to get the sex over and done with, because I had to be up early for work the next day. And he didn’t notice, because he didn’t notice anything, so blinded was he by male rage, discovering he was not the new Jonathan Franzen or even the new Will Self.<br>And as I soared, he sunk.<br>I admit there was one instance when he did give me an orgasm.

Goodness, I thought, lying prone on a hotel bed in New York. I felt a tingle. How did that happen? Did he Google it?<br> Why didn’t he notice I was faking it?

Did he really think women achieved ecstasy without any effort on the man’s part? And if he did notice I was faking it, why didn’t he try more?<br> RELATED ARTICLES

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Only later did I realise his new-found prowess was entirely down to a Manhattan mistress he was seeing: we all know Pilates-honed, immaculate New York career women won’t put up with a lazy English attitude in bed. I should have written a note to thank her.<br>It was to be a mere blip in our barren sex life, however.

I became the punch bag for every slight he ever experienced and, while I told him he was free to leave, I imagine he felt trapped financially.<br>A gorgeous house, a wife who cosseted him like a mum, is hard to cut ties with. I should have been more honest, said the sex wasn’t working, but I felt sorry for him.
He had this idea he was a stud: I didn’t want to disillusion him. In the end, I discarded him.<br>I had better sex, never having to fake it, in my mid-50s with a man who was much more my equal: not just in age and class, but a man who also had a high-flying job.<br>But, again, problems started here too when he retired, began to sleep all day and lean on me more.

I’d be expected to pay for hotels, dinner. An Uber to collect him. He once said he felt like a male escort. He’d begin to warn me that he was only on a pittance a month. Dear God, I thought. I spend more on dog food.<br> All that acting and I don’t even have a Golden Globe for it  Believe me, there is nothing sexy about financial disparity.

At first, it gets on your nerves. Then it will destroy your relationship.<br>You check into a lovely hotel, and because you are paying for it, he will try to ruin it: fixing himself a cocktail from the expensive mini bar or moaning that a 30-euro espresso in a luxury Paris hotel isn’t hot enough.
Each time is like an assault.<br>Because when a man depends on a woman for money, he will eventually punish her by expressly not trying to please her. He takes, you fakes.<br>Of course, some women might ask why a man should pay for everything.

I am not saying they should. But being nice, understanding, considerate to us would go a long way to stoking feelings of love and affection towards them in bed — and not merely expecting us still to make the dinner even when we’re the ones who have been out slaving at work for 14 hours that day.<br>Men like to paint women who have money and like nice things as spoilt.
That we don’t deserve our material success, no matter how hard we’ve worked. That rankles, and not just in the bedroom.<br>Faking it, I admit, is shameful. It helps no one. It’s dishonest. A sham. All that acting and I don’t even have a Golden Globe to show for it.

Sex should bring you closer as a couple. It should not be a duplicitous act. But I did it because to shatter a man’s illusions that he can satisfy you is, literally, a kick below the belt.<br>I should mention, too, in the spirit of full disclosure, that my husband often didn’t achieve sexual pleasure with me in bed.<br>Too many affairs?
Too many financial insecurities? Too many expensive ready meals bought by me? Who knows?<br>But he never, ever, once tried to make me feel better by pretending he had.<br>  And her husband’s response?

That makes two of us!<br>By <br>Whether Liz faked all those orgasms or not, they were far more dramatic and frankly unnerving than they needed to be.<br>It would be a shame if all of that was just a hammy show for my sake, because if Liz didn’t enjoy our sex life, that would make two of us.<br>I certainly faked most of my orgasms, though they were no more spectacular than the real thing.

The blame for these encounters lies squarely with Ms Jones, who, as the much older and more responsible party, should have brought them to a close sooner.<br>Sixteen years older and far wealthier, I see now Liz chose a young, impressionable ethnic man to accessorise her vacuous 40-something fashionista lifestyle, being more interested in maintaining a social facade than meeting her needs, let alone mine.<br>I’ll admit that I loved many aspects of our time together.<br>Living in an Islington townhouse, driving a BMW and travelling the world couldn’t have been less different to my own upbringing, the son of Indian immigrants whose lives were marked by financial hardship and bankruptcy.<br>In the early days, Liz seemed to offer an escape: an affluent and secure life that held none of the fears I’d grown up with.<br>Aged 26, I was earning £14,000 a year when I met Liz in 2000, a year into my first professional job on the bottom rung at the BBC.<br>I had spent the previous three years studying journalism, doing unpaid internships and working as a security guard.<br>I was then living with and financially helping my mother, a low-wage dishwasher at Heathrow, who was separated from my father at the time, and also my three younger siblings, who also lived at home.

The youngest two were still at high school.<br>By contrast, Liz was the Helmut Lang-clad, salon-styled editor of Britain’s biggest -selling women’s magazine, earning at least ten times my salary.<br>A famous columnist, with a chic North London home, she whisked me off to a six-star resort at Ian Fleming’s former property in Jamaica within weeks of us meeting.
We went to celebrity-filled parties on a weekly basis.<br>Coming from a very unglamorous working-class background (I was the first in my family to get any qualifications, let alone a degree), I was bedazzled by the world Liz showed me and the stars I mingled with, such as Giorgio Armani at a London bash thrown for singer Ricky Martin, or Dustin Hoffman at a New York fashion week party.<br>Young and impoverished, coming from a difficult background, I was overly impressed by all this.

I didn’t feel emasculated by her money and lifestyle, but felt I had gate-crashed a world that I had no right to be in. Those first few years together were a real trip for me.<br>Liz didn’t just flaunt her wealth and status to me, but loudly broadcast it to the entire world in her weekly column in The Mail on Sunday magazine, name-dropping the stars she met and the spas she attended, as well as the labels she wore.<br>That she claims to have faked all her orgasms, makes me wonder what on earth she was doing with an impecunious young man young enough to be her son.<br>I simply did what I was told to in the bedroom, thinking this was my unspoken role in the relationship.<br>I thought I was earning my keep, so to speak — and it would have been a blessed relief to know that I could have done so without being a galley-slave in the bedroom.<br>

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