Why I Want to Break the Glass Ceiling of Female Sexual Fulfillment

Can I give myself permission to receive unreciprocated pleasure?

Before I had sex, everything that I learned about it centered around men. I read about how to please them, got tips from my girlfriends about how to be a good lover, and was encouraged to offer oral sex as casually as one would offer someone a piece of gum. My teen magazines were filled with stories about how to gently persuade a male lover to wear a condom when he did not want to, how to fix your lipstick after a blow job, and what to wear to titillate your boyfriend on the night you decide to “go all the way.”

None of this changed when I reached adulthood. Everything regarding sex seemed to be about how to please a man.

I didn’t question it. I had always had this feeling that I was less-than, that it was a privilege that I was allowed to move through a man’s world, and so if sex came into the picture, I knew I was supposed to treat that as a gift, too — something I was lucky to experience, but that ultimately was not about or for me.

I was a little bit of a horny hedonist, though, slightly obsessed with the satisfaction of my own orgasm. I’d been enjoying my solo time for years before I had sex the first time and when our first few encounters were a bit lukewarm, I decided to do what I always do when I want to improve things: I did some research.

I remember the first book I bought about how to be a good lover, which was exactly what I had been looking for. But next to it, to my utter shock, was a companion guide, written for heterosexual men about how to please their women in bed.

I about fainted, I was so stunned. Men were supposed to care about women’s pleasure?

Feeling emboldened, I bought both books, and proudly took them to my boyfriend, declaring that we should start a dirty book club for just the two of us.

“We could read these and then share what we learned with each other!” I exclaimed, overwhelmed with excitement and the newfound knowledge that I actually mattered in our relationship.

I about fainted, I was so stunned. Men were supposed to care about women’s pleasure?

I didn’t expect his reaction, though. He was furious and yelled at me, accusing me of thinking he was a terrible lover.

“You think I’m so bad at this? Why don’t you just leave, then! Go find someone better; I dare you!”

I ran out in tears, while he screamed at me until I got in my car and drove away.

He apologized the next day (and I foolishly forgave him, unwise to what behavior that outburst was foretelling), but he never mentioned the books or what we had talked about. I read them by myself and used them to please him, realizing I had been wrong — sex was, indeed, about and for men.

It took me years to shake off that incident. I actually had a relationship with a man in which only he received sexual pleasure and orgasms and I got nothing in return. He flat-out told me he would not ever give me an orgasm and I was so brainwashed, I accepted his selfish pronouncement.

It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I dared to speak up again and tell a lover what I wanted him to do to please me. I was so terrified that he would leave me or yell at me. I was convinced that every single time I asked for something, he would interpret that as criticism— a subtle hint that he was not a good lover.

But also…I was so tired of not getting what I wanted or needed in bed.

Even as the years went by, I always feared that the balance would tip too far in my direction. I didn’t know what the right balance was, but I knew it had to be generally tipping toward him, because he was the man. I’d try to throw in extra blow jobs when I could, or let him fuck me in the morning which I hated but knew he loved. I even regularly planned fun sexcapades for special occasions, like his birthday, in which the entire night would be devoted to his pleasure — no reciprocation allowed.

Today, when I remember those days, it pains me. It never occurred to me that our sex life could be equal (or as equal as things can be in an imperfect world). It never occurred to me that I didn’t have to be (no, shouldn’t have to be) so worried that he was going to become resentful of spending too much time or effort in pleasing me. It never occurred to me that I deserved to receive pleasure, too, without always having to return it.

There are so many times that I gave past lovers sexual attention and pleasure without reciprocation that I literally can’t count them. It was a frequent occurrence.

But when I think of the times I received sexual attention and pleasure without reciprocation, I can easily count those moments. Because there is only one of them.

The only time I ever had a sexual encounter that focused exclusively on me was at the end of my last long-term relationship. We were in a pretty bad place by then — our communication had crumbled, our sex life was almost nonexistent, and we were both miserable.

But one afternoon, sitting on the couch, we somehow ended up in each other’s arms. He began undressing me and then spent the next half hour playing with my nipples. Then he began fingering me, tortuously slowly, and after a long, delicious, totally unhurried passage of time, I came, and came hard.

There are so many times that I gave past lovers sexual attention and pleasure without reciprocation that I literally can’t count them.

We stared at each other for a long moment after that, saying nothing. Normally, that would’ve been when I would have unzipped his pants and returned the favor.

But he had spent the previous month lying to me, behaving secretively, and basically ignoring me. I was still angry. I didn’t want to keep giving to him when he had been treating me with such disrespect.

I wondered if I could “get away” with receiving that orgasm without “paying him back.” I had never, ever done that before. Would he yell? Would he tell me I was a horrible, selfish bitch?

I wasn’t sure I cared. I was intoxicated with the freedom of the idea that I could receive pleasure, for once, without having to worry about returning it.

He got up a moment later, saying nothing. The decision was made for me.

I look back now and suspect that he gave me that pleasure on purpose — one last orgasm. Because I was about to discover that he was passionately pursuing a relationship with another woman.

So I did pay for that orgasm, after all.

In my forties, I’ve let myself fantasize about all kinds of crazy things. One of those fantasies involves being with a lover who regularly treats me. Who gives me pleasure and orgasms without any expectation that I return the favor.

Not exclusively, of course. Where’s the fun in that?

But the idea of having a lover who consistently says, “Tonight is all about you,” the way I used to do for my exes… That is a luxury I can only imagine in fantasy.

I’m not sure such a scenario deserves to be relegated to fantasy, though.

I think about that day when I found the companion guide to how to be a good lover to a male partner. If it’s so normalized that a woman would delight in giving her male partner unlimited and un-reciprocated pleasure, why shouldn’t that be normalized the other way around, too?

I mean, I have a full-on fantasy about all the ways a man might give me pleasure, all the ways he might make me come, all the ways he would leave me gasping in a puddle of sweat…and other fluids.

And because I’m a horny little hedonist, it doesn’t end there! Then he goes in the kitchen and sweats and toils until he has a whole tray of goodies to bring me. And…okay, okay, I’m getting off track. Another story for another time, perhaps, but you get my point.

I have done everything in my fantasy for the men I’ve been with. Why on earth does it feel so impossible, so indulgent, so wrong to have a man do that for me?

Part of the sexual revolution I want to see in the world is not just women owning their pleasure, but women who are daring enough to receive it. Women who dare to take up so much space that they demand lovers who will occasionally give and only give.

That seems like the most badass thing a sexually liberated woman could do.

Do we dare?

Do we dare to ask a lover to kiss us until our lips bruise? To suck on our nipples until they ache? To strum our clits in no particular hurry until we just melt into an orgasm? To make us post-coital pancakes and then bring them back to bed where we can eat them against the pillows, naked and sticky? (Oh sorry, I got lost in my fantasy, again…)

I think this is the challenge for many women — to identify their glass ceiling when it comes to pleasure…and then break it.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

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