How I Hacked My Sexual Shame
Our friend talks about the challenging journey of her sex life — from virginity through divorce and beyond — and what she’s learned along the way.
Straight / Female / 45–50 / North America / Single
Author’s note: This story is anonymous not because I’m embarrassed by what I’ve written, but because I have teenage children. For now, I remain quietly rebellious, waiting to reveal more of myself until that moment in adulthood when children finally understand that their parents are human, and therefore richly flawed.
Last night I had a first date with a guy I met online. After a lovely evening I invited him back to my place, and we had sex.
It was one of the proudest moments of my life.
I noticed this strange emotional response while telling my friends about the date. I had no shame, no need to hide what I had done, just a foolish pride I couldn’t explain. Then I realized — for the first time in my 30 years of dating I had made a completely conscious choice about sex. I had put away the voices in my head telling me that what I want is wrong, therefore I am wrong.
Once I understood the reason for my pride, I started thinking about the times in my life when I didn’t make a conscious choice. All the times I gave my body when my heart didn’t want to. And all the times I gave my body but withheld the full nature of my desire.
I’m 13, and my best friend wants me to sneak out with her late at night to meet her 18-year-old boyfriend and his friend. I know I’m expected to entertain his friend while the two of them make out. I’m not happy about it, but she guilts me, so I go. She’s the pretty, popular one and I value the adventure and glory I get from being her sidekick. He’s my first French kiss, and it’s awful. He sticks his hard tongue in my mouth with no preamble, and circles it around in a wide arc with almost impossible speed. It feels invasive and endless. I spend the next two years worrying, because I hate French kissing and everyone else loves it. I know this because I watch movies.
I’m 15, on a school trip to France. A 25-year old French man kisses me, and it feels like my fantasies told me it should. Then he undresses me and wants to have sex, but I don’t. He refuses to speak to me for the rest of my trip. I’m angry and confused, but grateful that he gave me my love of French kissing.
I’m 18, and I feel like the last virgin on earth. Possibly defective, and certainly ignorant. I make a plan. I go home from college at Christmas and sleep with my best friend. I’m not physically attracted to him, but I know I can trust him to be sweet and gentle with me. He is. He’s also hurt to find out that I don’t want to date him. That I used him. I used him to silence the voices telling me I wasn’t lovable, I wasn’t sexy, I wasn’t wanted. His feelings didn’t even occur to me because I’ve been taught that all men want sex all the time.
I’m 18, it’s right after Christmas, and after sex with my best friend. I have sex with my high school ex-boyfriend because he wants to. I’ve given away the virginity I was supposed to be protecting, so I have no good reason to say no anymore.
I’m 20, and I’m desperately in love with my married professor. I flirt with his teaching assistant to gain some kind of proximity to him. The TA and I go on a couple of dates, and I feel pressured into sex. A few weeks later I ask him why he pressured me. He says he was afraid I wouldn’t stick around to date him if we didn’t have sex quickly. He’s probably right. We date for a year because he’s a smart, nice guy and he’s the connection to my unattainable love.
I’m 21, and I extend my vacation to spend more time with the Mexican bartender I met on spring break. He asks me to quit college and come live with him. I like him a lot, but not that much. We start to fool around one night, but I quickly realize how drunk he is and don’t want to have sex with him, because I don’t feel seen. He climbs on top of me and starts pounding into me even though I tell him no and ask him to stop. He’s a lot bigger than me and it’s the middle of the night in a Mexican barrio, so it feels futile and possibly dangerous to resist more than I do. His cock is too big for me. It hurts even when I want to have sex with him, but it hurts more when I don’t. Mercifully, he passes out quickly, even before coming, and I roll him off of me. For a long time, I don’t consider it rape because he didn’t come. I ask him the next morning why he forced me. He is indignant, and tells me he doesn’t ever have to force a woman to have sex.
I’m 21, and I’m staying with a friend in New York City before I leave the country to teach English. We go out and meet up with an old friend from Texas. His brother really likes me. Well, I’m not sure if he actually likes me, but he’s drunk and horny and aggressive with his attention. Since I know his brother, he must be ok. He’s not my type, but he likes me so much that I feel bad rejecting him. We have sex for 3 days before I leave. I think I had fun. I liked being wanted that much. He gives me a (curable!) STD.
I’m 28, and I’m working in an office down the hall from my future husband. We have the same sense of humor, and he’s just my type. The sexual tension builds for months, with late nights at the office and outings with friends. Then he picks me up from the airport after Christmas, cooks dinner for me, and we make out. Heavily. But I don’t have sex with him because I really like this guy. I see relationship potential. I wait two weeks, which seems like the good girl thing to do in 1996. He later asks me why he had to wait two very long weeks, and I tell him sheepishly that I didn’t want him to think I was easy.
I’m 38, we’re married, and he definitely doesn’t think I’m easy. I force myself to have sex with him every two months because I know married people are supposed to have sex, and not having sex probably means divorce. Divorce is bad. Everyone says so. But after years of unexpressed and unresolved resentments, his angry tirades and my retreating silences, I come to loathe him. I can’t do it any more. We divorce.
I’m 40, and I’m in a relationship with the opposite of my ex-husband. He’s kind, and adores me more than I thought anyone could. We have the best sex of my life. He is my sexual awakening. He gives permission to the full force of my fantasy and desire, which until now has made me feel like a freak. As though if my lovers knew the extent and content of my desire, they would be disgusted by me and cast me out for the slut that I am. But he is not disgusted. He is patient and insistent on my pleasure, and the first man who can make me come. I am excited by my liberation, but sad that I cheated my previous relationships of their full potential by hiding myself.
I’m 43, and my libido begins to cool into what I perceive as the natural arc of a relationship. He tells me he still wants me now as much as he did the day we met. I feel guilty because I don’t. He wants sex nine times a week and I want it once. We compromise on three.
I’m 46, and I realize how much it has hurt me to compromise my body into sex I didn’t want, over and over again. He can’t compromise his needs any more than he already has. I want control over my body again. I want the space to feel desire again. I realize that the life we’re leading together isn’t the one I want for the next 30 years. I leave.
I’m 47, and I’ve been sex-free for almost a year. I want sex badly but I’m not willing to settle for bad sex, and I’ve learned that I need more than just a physical connection for good sex. So I wait. For Alex. He’s sexy, and he has a compelling life story. I think he’s deeper and more self-aware than most men. When we have sex, he pounds away for two hours, takes a break, and then another hour. He’s too big for me. After the first hour, it’s more pain than pleasure. I say nothing, for fear of distracting him from his orgasm. When he fails to pay attention to any part of my body other than my pussy, I wonder what he finds lacking. When he begrudgingly goes down on me, I ask him to vary his pressure. He’s unable or unwilling to do so. But he looks into my eyes every moment we have sex, so I tell myself we’re connected and that it will get better.
I finally work up the courage to tell him that three hours of pounding is too much for me because it hurts. He says ok. He then laughs and appears pleased with his prowess. A few dates later, I tell him I don’t want to have sex anymore, but we can still be friends. That’s what nice girls are supposed to say so that we don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. He tells me that he really likes me. He knows this because he actually wants to go out places with me, instead of just coming over and fucking me like he does with most women. He thinks this is a compliment. I try to be friends for a while. Then I listen to my heart. Actually, we can’t be friends.
I’m 48, and I come to understand that I am the main culprit in my own unhappiness. I take a hard look at the men I choose and why. I see my complicity in not getting what I want — I don’t know what that is or how to ask for it. I find an amazing group of friends that want to think and explore and learn and grow. We talk about sex, the meaning of life, everything. They are the co-architects of my new consciousness. My mind expands, and the possibilities for life expand with it. I come to understand that I am perfectly imperfect. I’ve made many mistakes and I’ll make many more. I finally have compassion and love for myself. Which means that I can trust my heart to make good decisions. Not the “right” decisions, because there’s no such thing.
I decide to go back into online dating. But this time, I ask for what I want with no self-judgment. I want to date younger men. They’re more vulnerable and adventurous. They don’t try to control me. I set my filters for men 25–40 instead of telling myself that I also need to look for age-appropriate men. My age-appropriate friends are scandalized.
Hugh’s profile is pretty good. He has a dog photo, which lets me know he likes dogs and is therefore a nice person. I don’t like dogs, but I’m learning to forgive myself for that. He’s 30, has pensive photos, and is British. I like sarcasm, and the challenge of charming the reserved. And yeah, the accent is hot. I swipe, we match. We have a 2 ½ hour text conversation in which he tells me intimate things about himself. Vulnerability is insanely sexy to the new me.
We meet. We talk about men and women, and life. We play video games. We eat dinner. We walk. He’s sweet, and funny, and a bit nervous. He keeps asking if I’m getting cold. I know that means he’s getting cold. I ask him if he wants to go back to my house without any expectations about what might happen. He says yes, and I trust him. We go back to my place, and I show him my art. This is like showing him a piece of who I am.
We sit on opposite couches and talk for a minute. He puts his foot on mine. This is the only signal I need. I go sit next to him. We kiss, then make out, then I ask him to go to my bedroom. I know that if I want him to stop at any time I can ask him to, and he will. But I don’t. The sex is lovely. It’s not mindblowing, but it’s variously sensual, and sweet, and hot. Afterwards we lie there and talk. Then he says he’s leaving. I have an expectation in my head that we should spend the night together because that makes it more meaningful than a one-night stand. But I think about how much better I’ll sleep alone, and I let go of my disappointment. I’m still growing.
The next day, I realize I’ve forgotten to give Hugh ‘The Speech.’ The speech in which I tell him what I’m looking for, ask him what he’s looking for, and find out if we want the same thing before we have sex. oops. Maybe I didn’t forget. Maybe I just didn’t need to. But I figure it can’t hurt to be clear, so I text him. I tell him that I’ve been in monogamous relationships for almost 20 years. Right now, I need to explore myself fully and not be tied to a man’s expectations of me. I’m also learning to value my time and energy, giving them only to people and experiences that enrich me. So I need an intellectual and emotional as well as physical connection with the men I have sex with. He understands and tells me he’s figuring out his life too. We agree to see each other again, on our own terms.
Regardless of what happens, I’m grateful to Hugh for this lovely entry into the next phase of my life. I’m finally making decisions about sex without listening to the voices in my head. Not the voices of society telling me that I shouldn’t have sex because I’ll be a slut. Not the voices of men telling me that I should have sex to please them. Just my voice, asking my heart what it wants.
Update, 1 Year Later
Life is not a fairytale, and Hugh and I didn’t see each other again. The last year has been a lot of learning. I’ve come to see sexual pleasure and desire as a positive force in life, to be de-shamed and cultivated by all of us. I’ve also realized that being penetrated inevitably impacts my heart, and I need to respect that fact when making decisions about my life. I’ve gotten better at knowing what I want in any given moment and communicating it. I surround myself with friends and lovers who want to hear what I have to say. I feel more emotionally equipped than ever to navigate the complex interplay of friendship, desire, sex and love. And the learning continues.
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