November Writing Challenge
In Thanks to The Lovers Who Open My Mind To Receiving Full-Body Pleasure
Regarding the mystical, magical, alchemical nuances of sex and sexploration
When I innocently discovered the tingling, luscious, delicious sensations my body was capable of at age 4, I spent much of the rest of my childhood repeating this mantra:
“When I’m a grown-up I’ll get to experience sexual pleasure.”
My mom discouraged my dating until after high school. I think her heart couldn’t handle my heart breaking; she knew if I dated there’d be physical interaction and in the mid-1990s we were all still terrified of sex equalling death (AIDS) and I’m sure mom was worried about teen pregnancy.
“When I’m a grown-up I’ll get to experience sexual pleasure.”
All this delayed gratification turned out to be a double-edged sword. On one side, I spent a huge chunk of my childhood behind closed doors, exploring the sensations my body was capable of producing. I could induce deep relaxation from orgasming. I could ease my anxiety by rubbing one out. I probably got to know my body in a much more intimate and self-loving way than many young women experience.
The downside was I had no experience dating and “flirting” was actually just having a conversation with someone. Boys, now men, intimidated the hell out of me.
And, all because of that dangly thing between their legs.
How could these penis-holders navigate their lives without thinking about sex all the time? Because I sure as hell was and there wasn’t a protrusion in my pants reminding me to think about it all the time either.
A Slow Thaw
I was freshly 18 and in my freshman year of college. I had ugly silver braces and low self-esteem. And, raging hormones. Max was in my Poli Sci class. He was compact — short, bald, and muscular. I don’t remember if I asked him out or he asked me out. I’m sure I practiced googly eyes on every attractive man in the class and probably gave some eyes to the women there, too, though I’d have denied it at the time.
Long story short, Max took me to some strobe-out, techno dance club and eventually he tried shoving his tongue down my throat. That was my first kiss. I didn’t not like it, but I was more into the bumping and grinding of our horny lower anatomy on the dance floor.
Max gave me a neck full of hickies and mono. He chastised me for not putting out in a Catholic church parking lot after he bought me some fries at McDonald’s.
And, so my dating life began.
It was a rocky road from age 18–22 when I met my now-husband, David.
During those four years, I continued to be inhibited in relating sexually with others. I think part of this was learned behavior from exploring sexuality privately. It was also the slut-shaming, patriarchal cultural judgments, and double standards that I could feel as a young woman in the late 1990s and early 2000s. I simply hadn’t found the sex-positive movement yet.
Read: I wish I’d explored more than I did — with more communication on my part, more selectively chosen partners, and with women, too.
“Sex is always about emotions. Good sex is about free emotions; bad sex is about blocked emotions.”
While I’d spent over a decade learning the intricacies of my own body, I’d also internalized a lot of self-criticism, self-judgment, and had silenced myself by repeating the “when you’re a grown-up mantra”
It took a long time to thaw out the layered wall I’d built around my body.
Melting
Jay taught me that other people find my body attractive, my cunt juice an elixir. I was about 20 years old and it was something I’d had trouble believing. Who would want to put their face down in that frenetic, wet mound of pubic hair pointing every which way, curly and straight, with the scent of my most personal center?
Jay, that’s who.
In our 18–22 year age span, I was best friends with a woman, June, who had a younger brother. They all lived at her parents’ large home out in the country. It was the party house. Alcohol, rock, and weed lubricated the atmosphere.
It was a fun place to be. Once June’s brother and his friends graduated high school, we all started hanging out with each other — smoking weed and shooting tequila. Cruising weekend city nights, moaning about our boredom while lighting up a joint, and wishing we had boyfriends or girlfriends.
Eventually, some of us started hooking up.
One evening, I was crashed out on June’s living room floor, feeling like I could orgasm just by lying still and thinking about having an orgasm. I felt insatiable. My mind had a singular focus.
When Jay started undoing the zipper on my jeans, I let him. I hadn’t thought about him in a sexual way. For one thing, he was on the shorter side. And, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, because he didn’t seem like “dating” material. Not that I was, but I knew two people who liked to party all the time probably weren’t going to make it far in life, and I saw this as a problem.
As he undid the fly to my jeans I made a conscious decision to let him enjoy me. I decided to suspend my disbelief and accept that Jay actually liked eating pussy. Even mine. Even my hairy, hairy, wet one.
And, good god. He did.
His tongue was magic. It coaxed new sensations from my vagina that I didn’t even know she was capable of feeling. He found my clit — I wasn’t even sure about how to truly find my clit — and he used his mouth, teeth, and tongue in such an expert way that my hips were quivering, jumping into a yoga bridge position so his tongue wouldn’t leave my pleasure center.
I was a goddess, capable of infinite sexual energy, delight, and pleasure. That’s what it felt like. And, then I came. Hard.
At this point, I hadn’t had sex yet and I was intimidated by erections. While I’d fingered myself, used nail polish bottles, brush ends, and whatnot, I hadn’t learned my way around penises. I was shy and embarrassed. Orgasms also brought me into a deep relaxation state that coaxed me into sleep.
After cumming hard, I ignored Jay, rolled over, and went to sleep. He groused at me about his blue balls the next morning. I rolled my eyes. In hindsight, I wish I’d been more communicative.
I felt “naughty” and almost made myself go into a disassociative state during sex — “I’m grown up — it’s okay now, but is it?” I’d spent so much time telling myself I had to wait, I now felt like I should still be waiting even though that didn’t even make sense. I’d hidden my sexuality for years. I’d grown years’ worth of shame around my sexuality. These were things I wasn’t yet ready to process.
The Flame Emerges
“When sex involves all the senses intensely, it can be like a mystical experience.”
Twenty-plus years after my husband, David, and I started dating, we are still learning about our sexuality. Unshockingly, when we were new lovers in our 20s, we were both fairly insatiable hornballs who went at it all the time. And, that was great fun.
But, marriage. And, kids. And, Covid. And, mental health. And, work. And, life. And, and, and.
We’ve had a lot of roadblocks in our emotional and sexual relationship over the years.
In 2021, something shifted. I began writing under a pen name about sexuality. I began writing erotic poetry and erotica. I began reading sexuality writers Elle Beau ❇︎, Zara Everly, Danielle Loewen, Lindsay Soberano-Wilson, Edward Riley, Yael Wolfe, Demeter Delune, and so many more.
My mind opened more than I think it ever has before. And, it felt (and feels) great.
I went from being able to only handle one orgasm per sexual interaction to allowing myself the pleasure of multiple orgasms. I learned to share how much I love receiving oral sex. I learned to share my wants, desires, and fantasies.
And, lucky for me, David is open and receptive, and well, our sex life is juicy. That’s not something I thought I’d say at age 43.
Surprise!
Sex can get even better with age if you stay open and curious.
Sexual union with a partner can be a beautiful alchemizing experience in which we experience the melding of our mind, body, and spirit.
I’m thankful for all the sexual stepping stones that put me on the path to kindling a transcendent erotic life — in my 40s and beyond.
