I am the furthest thing you’ll find from a “prude” or a “sex snob.” When I hear other girls tell me that their number of partners range from the 20s to 30s, my immediate thought is not, ‘Slut,’ but rather, ‘I wish I had their confidence.’ I believe as a woman in the 21st century, we should be free to sleep with whomever we want, whenever we want, without judgment, as long as we’re being safe. However, I am what you would like to call a “repeat offender” meaning that I generally only end up having sex with people that I’ve known and slept with before.
Because the truth is that the anxiety (even to someone like me who does not even suffer from anxiety) that comes with sleeping with someone new is downright debilitating at times.
It’s certainly not like the movies.
Sure, there is usually some sexual tension and buildup in the scenario, even if it’s just a person that you met only two or three hours ago while you were chugging your second, third, fourth, eighth whiskey sour. But it’s not as if though it’s a cinematic production where you fall into bed and make passionate, earth-shattering sex with perfectly-timed moves and synchronicity akin to that found in a Riverdance performance.
In fact, most of the times it’s painfully awkward. Rewarding, yes, but not without its flaws…
The first hang-up comes when you realize that someone new is going to be seeing you naked. Suddenly that whole container of hummus you ate that afternoon is your biggest regret, or you think about the text you received from your gym that tells you they “miss you” because you haven’t been seen in over two weeks. Damn it. You knew that this moment was coming and yet you didn’t do nearly enough to prepare for someone to be seeing you sprawled out on a mattress with nothing between you and God. You also become acutely aware of every flaw, blemish, and scar that you’ve acquired over your life and wonder if it’s apparent as a neon sign to your new partner. Will they find them endearing? Probably not. But you hope that you can at least find them tolerable.
You also become unnervingly aware of every spot you missed while shaving this morning. You ran over yourself three times in the shower this morning with that six-bladed mechanism. You checked and rechecked and then checked again. Yet, as their fingers are traveling over your skin even you can tell that one more go-over with the razor wouldn’t have hurt because during that acrobatic process in the shower this morning you still missed something. Of course.
You wonder what you most look like from their point of view. Every single time you’ve accidentally opened the front-facing camera on your phone while lying in bed has been a massive mistake. You can’t comprehend how the creature staring back at you from the screen of your phone is actually you, and now that same exact swamp thing is what is staring up at them. Breathe. It’s okay. The camera adds 10 pounds, everyone knows this… right?
Wait, what are they doing? Just as you’re about to be swallowed up in a vat of self-loathing an insecurity over your appearance, you realize that you need to contend with the fact that you’re dealing with someone new here, and every person has a new way of doing things. Not only that, but they have their own set of things they like and don’t like. Sure, some things are pretty run-of-the-mill and there’s not a lot of room to put your own “spin” on them, but still… It’s a little exciting to figure out a person in the bedroom, but there’s always that fear that they’re going to pull some insanely weird move on the first time, so you’re mentally trying to remember where all your clothes are at on the floor in case a very quick escape is necessary.
You’re not a virgin, yet you realize that you’re just about as nervous as one. Okay, so this really only comes into play if you really like the person that you’re about to have sex with. It’s maddening. You think back to all of the other sexual encounters that you’ve had and you remember the confident, red-cheeked, wild-haired vixen you were (or, rather, imagined yourself as) and you can’t believe that alter-ego of yours has decided to pull a Houdini and leave you here to contend with all of this yourself. Suddenly you’re seventeen again trying to remember the basics of sex, all the while reminding yourself to not imitate a dead fish.
Am I being too loud? …At this point, do I care?
Holy fuck. This feels amazing. Now you care very little about what you look like, what they look like, or even where you’re at. There in, moving, and it’s go time.
Am I allowed to bite? Because I’m a biter. But am I allowed to bite? Do I need to get a consent form filled out for that?
…He expects me to last for how long? Sure, we’d talked about this beforehand, but only now is it sinking in that he’s got the stamina of a bull and that I’m in for one wild ride (pun intended). This feels really good, but… umm… How long, again?
How does this position rank with them compared to the others I’ve tried it with? Maybe I’ll rethink this over when I’m not panting and whining like a cat in heat, where he is all I can think about and all I want.
Now that I’ve had three orgasms and can’t feel my legs and am covered in sweat that I’m 98.2% sure isn’t mine… We’re back to level one. I’m still naked and he’s still perfect. Did he like what he saw? Did I like what I saw? …Do I even remember what I saw? Oh, my God, there’s so much sweat.
I’d try and make an argument that the next time will be better, but that assumes there will be a next time. So I’m just going to lay here and let him talk in order to gauge what he feels about the situation. Oh. There he goes, talking about a next time. Now, do I want a next time? I’ll give him an hour to recharge and give him a hands-on answer.
Cuddling. I’m not opposed to it, but damn dude, let me cool down. You just ran me through a triathlon of positions and I haven’t done cardio in over two weeks – trust me, my gym kindly reminded me just two days ago, remember?
The decompression. At this point, you’re nervous that your nervousness won out and has scared him away forever, or given him the impression that you’re a completely inept and inexperienced woman who he’s going to have to “teach”. You wish you could tell him about your sex goddess alter-ego who comes out to play once certain comfort levels have been reached, but maybe talking about split personalities isn’t your best bet when you’re basking in the afterglow.
Okay. Where are my panties? And my shirt. And my jeans. Not that standing up bare-ass naked in order to find my clothing isn’t nerve-wracking enough, but it’s apparently the law of physics that every article of clothing I wear has to land in its own individual corner of the room. How the fuck did my bra even get under the hamper?
You tell yourself that the next time will be better, that you’ll be more confident (that is if you even think there will be a next time). Truth is, you know that it probably won’t be. He’ll still be mind-blowingly perfect in the sack and you’ll just have to wait until that alter-ego of yours shows up around the fourth or fifth time to give him back what he’s been giving to you.
However, at least next time you’ll be collected and resolved enough to remember how to unbutton your own jeans and not have that second piece of cheesecake at dinner the night before.