A girl who is unimpressed with sex? Shocker. I don’t even have an interesting twist to it, as in that is just it: I’m a girl, and sex hasn’t lived up to its hype for me. It’s actually something that I attribute most of my relationship problems to, and I never thought I would desperately wish for sex to be like it is in eight-dollar romance novels. I would probably be a slut if I thought it would help—if somehow sex could just be so mind-blowing that I could do nothing but do it constantly, I might be able to sustain a healthy, mature, meaningful relationship longer than a year. But it doesn’t work like that (read: DAMMIT).
My first “official” encounter with the so-far sub-stellar wet blanket that is sex was the summer between sophomore year and junior year when I turned sixteen (standard exposure for a girl in this day and age). He was a going-nowhere derelict who had attracted me with his live fast, die young philosophy, but it was the most awkward, uncomfortable thing I’d ever put myself through, and I cut it short because it was just so awful. The next day at track practice, my sprinting spandex was coated in a cakey layer of half-dried blood. I consulted a promiscuous friend, who confirmed I did indeed break my cherry with that guy, who later went on to text me his intentions to break up after he had just dropped me off at my house. Junior year was all about feeling terrible for having given a part of myself to someone who could barely respect himself, and spurning the aggressive sexual advances of a crazy guy who thought he could get to my heart through my legs.
Senior year, I lost myself, and got back with my on-again, off-again high school boyfriend, and just decided that since my v-card wasn’t going to magically reappear, I wasn’t opposed to keeping a vestal appetite. One day, we were at his house alone watching hockey when he just randomly ripped his shirt off. The rest of the night went exactly as you can imagine, and the rest of the month went similarly, pregnancy scare and all. He even told his parents, and that was the end of them viewing me as his upstanding, over-achieving girlfriend. The summer lit us on fire and we burnt down slowly as we sprinted in opposite directions to college.
Past that, I’ve had very few hook ups that ended in an attempt at sex (we were too drunk, he mispronounced my name, it just got too awkward or quiet, I had a sudden moment of self-respect) but I did have two guys who I hooked up with regularly, one in a relationship context and the other in a “I’m a freshman, you’ve got a condom, yay” kind of setting, and sex with them was much different than in high school—the lead up and foreplay was incredibly potent and I would go into each situation expecting the sex to be even better. But it was just frustrating, embarrassing, and kind of tiring after a while, having a sweaty boy twisting and shoving at me for two to six of the longest minutes of my life as my turn on died with every laboured breath he’d use to whisper some creepy, rehearsed dirty line. Some days, we would be bored and start up a round for the hell of it, but I wouldn’t have the patience or will to concentrate on feeling good or pleasing him, and we would just roll away, tired and defeated, which was worse than being bored in the first place. These relationships died because I was slowly trained to dislike sex, then physical closeness with them at all, which fostered emotional detachment. It was like punching a hole in the bottom of a paper cup and watching it slowly spill all over the floor.
But this is mostly my fault—instead of being open and honest with them about my opinions/feelings/experiences and working with them to achieve something marginally more pleasurable…
I faked it. Every time.
Not once in my life have I had an orgasm, and I think I’ve clocked about 50 hours trying. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, considering 100% of those hours went towards trying to come during sex (I don’t do girl masturbating, I think it’s awkward and weird and not my job), but I definitely feel as though I have made a dedicated effort to try, at least on my side of things. After the initial slide in, which always felt good and full, sex just went downhill from there for me. I don’t know why—maybe it’s because I don’t jerk off and therefore have no idea how to please myself, much less direct a guy to do it for me or if, God forbid, I am just doomed never to feel the tidal wave big-O. My girlfriends tell me about the amazing sex they’ve had with their boyfriends and hookups, and I get to hear my roommates go at it every now and then just to feel even more alone—will I ever get to experience the amazing closeness good sex can bring? It’s sad that the question has devolved from “when?” to “will I ever?” because it’s really just been that flat and, at times, tedious.
It sucks even more because, discounting high school, I have been told that I’m amazing in bed. In a way, it’s almost understandable; I paid attention to my partner after the initial couple of minutes feeling hot and slowly wanting it to be over. I learned to sync rhythm and speed, all with a cute pout and a sexy, borderline-slutty moan. A boyfriend once actually told me that watching me come was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. It was sad because not only was it all a show to speed things along, but he was comparing me to all the girls he’d watched on his computer when I turned down an invite to sleep over to study. I’ll never be as tan or as busty or as airbrushed-smooth as the girls in the videos, but I’m real, I hope that counts for something. And if I could just find someone who can change all of this, who can make me scream for real and feel so fucking good I want to explode until I finally do, I might have a shot at something real, too. But I’m still trapped in the mute hell of mediocrity.
I’ve discussed these problems with my girl friends, and it was suggested that I should sleep around more. Statistically, it makes sense, but part of sex to me is experiencing something with someone you care about. That’s not to say that all sex should be slow and gentle with candles and chill music—in fact, it’s the sex that is more like straight primal fucking that intrigues me most—but if you can do it with anyone, it’s not special. And sex can be special whether you’re screwing like horny rabbits in a grease pit or making love to Barry White tunes, so long as you’ve got something with the one you’re sharing it with. I think that’s what I want the most: to just be almost unable to deal with how amazing the sex is, then to look up in his eyes, knowing that he’s doing this to me, and there isn’t a thing in the universe that matters outside the little world we’ve made here, and there isn’t a single person I would want to make me feel like this, not a single name I’d rather call out when I do—finally—come.
Until then… sex? So what.