In Defense of Sex
I got my vagina probed today – sorry, guys – and I say this with absolutely zero positive connotation. The gynecologist asked me at one point if I was comfortable – my feet are locked into the stirrups while wearing nothing but a paper gown as I stare uneasily up at the foam ceiling – to which I responded, “Is anyone ever comfortable in this situation?” Because, seriously.
She laughed. I laughed (nervously). It was our mutually agreed upon answer.
Pre-probe, the nurse prepped me for my annual appointment. And, ladies and gentlemen, nothing like a visit to the female doctor to sharpen one’s self-awareness.
Nurse: “How many partners have you had in the last year?”
*starts nervously twisting opal ring around her left middle finger*
Me: “Five. I think. Wait.”
I begin counting them in my head for confirmation but can’t remember for the life of me if things with Exhibit A – the guy who loved my soul but wasn’t ready for a relationship – actually ended in July, or maybe it was August. But, like, the very beginning of August. Before I left for California.
Wait, when did I leave for California?
I realize I’ll have to go back and check my screenshots for the exact date of when I called him out about his very public relationship announcement. Via Facebook. Made by his girlfriend. With her two kids. That I obviously never knew existed. While he was still talking to me. Yes, them. Together. The guy who wasn’t ready for a relationship.
[insert raised eyebrow emoji here]
Nurse: “It’s fine. I just need a general number.”
She understands how difficult this is for me, right? I mean, this has to be difficult for everyone. Right?! Was I supposed to come prepared for these questions?
Some of you have never lived in a trailer. And it shows.
Me: “Okay, five. Yeah, let’s go with five.”
Nurse: “And how many in the last three months?”
Me: “Just one.”
First of all. Thank gawd that was easier to answer. Second. Just?! Why did I feel the need to insert that adverb? Is one “good?” What other answers does this woman hear on the daily? And, great, I’m now a sex elitist. Because, I’m actually thinking that my “one” is better than the next girl who sits in this same chair saying “two.” I hate myself. Right now. I hate myself.
Nurse: “And will any of these partners continue into the future?”
*scrunches face and contemplates curling up in the fetal position, but opts to continue twirling ring*
MAKE THIS STOP, my self-respect screams.
Me: “Ummm. Yeah. That’s still up in the air. He broke up with me because I don’t live by him anymore. You know, the whole trailer thing. And he doesn’t think he can give me what I want. Isn’t that such bullshit when they say that? Anyway, I don’t want us to be over. So maybe the verdict is still out? Maybe, like, three-quarters or something? Can you use decimals?”
She laughed. I laughed (nervously). It was our mutually agreed upon answer.
In my next life, I am a standup comedian.
Good news. I received a clean bill of health. Bad news. Sex is hard for me.
Woah. Hold up. Wait a minute. Don’t go there ‘cause I ain’t wit it.
I don’t mean hard, like, painful. No. No. Sex. Big fan. I mean, as a woman, sitting inside of this space and articulating that I enjoy sex. That I want sex. It’s fucking hard. Because my experience says that if I want it without expectation, then I am deemed promiscuous, but if I want it with expectation, then I am labeled excessive.
Great. Careless or clinger. Can I get a damn door in the middle, please?
In a rapid-fire DM session with one of my favorite females, she told me about a convo she’d had recently where she referenced her “slutty years” only to be reprimanded by one of her girlfriends: “What slutty years? You aren’t a slut.”
Kudos, girlfriend. KU-DOS.
Because newsflash. Men don’t have “slutty years.” They just have years. And they have more sex in some of those years and less sex in others. They don’t need to justify their sexual choices. Ever.
Males, you can obviously correct me if you think I’m wrong, but women are held to an entirely different standard in this category.
Let me prove my point.
My ex-husband was a virgin (you can read more about that relationship here). Mind you, he did everything but have vaginal sex in his younger years (as if that obedience is smiled upon by God while the people having real pre-marital sex are sent to the fiery pit of Hell). He kept all kinds of girls at arm’s length and excused it in the name of friendship. Most of them lived in different states, and in his manipulative mind, phone sex didn’t account for breaking any boundaries (on second thought, maybe dating hasn’t changed that much after all with the advent of online applications).
In his eyes, I was tainted. I had had sex with two other men – yes, fewer partners by the age of 30 than all the men combined in my aforementioned 12-month timeframe – and Stephanie 1.0 believed every degrading thing he had to say about her because of it. Stephanie 1.0 believed she was dirty. Stephanie 1.0 was convinced that his evaluation of her made him the only one who would ever be able to accept her brokenness.
Newsflash. This is narcissism.
So, what the nurse is doing here is accessing one of my deepest insecurities as she seemingly questions my wholesomeness. She has ripped off a scab – heart bleeding – that only Stephanie 2.0 is able to recognize as being completely unrelated to that present moment.
If you hadn’t already figured it out, she’s just doing her job (sans emotion).
The answers are not a reflection of my morality.
Because I am the author of my own dictionary. And I am not on a sex crusade. I am *now* a single 35-year-old female with a strong desire to find partnership. And inside of that search, sex happens.
Do you like how I feel the need, again, to clarify what I’m *not* doing? Yeah, me neither.
My point is simply that, in my years inside of the dating scene, I’ve seen a lot of guys – too many guys – looking for that one thing. Men seeking to fulfill only their carnal cravings. I’m not doing that here. But, hear me, doing that would be fine. If I owned that truth, it would be fine. The problem is that too few of us are owning anything. The problem is that we’ve abandoned honesty. The problem is that dating is dead.
My truth. I want a male counterpart with whom to do rad things. I also want a male counterpart with whom to have amazing sex. And sometimes, in that search, I do rad – and also utterly boring – things with men. And sometimes, in that search, I have amazing – and also absolutely awful – sex with men.
My hope is that, one day, the stars align and I’m sitting next to someone – our limbs knotted – who can unequivocally satiate my desires for both rad things and amazing sex. Without either of us being hung up on a list of previous partners.
I remember in my 20’s being so concerned about a guy’s number. As if it’s ever safe to assume that another’s dictionary aligns with our own. And, now, I honestly just do not care. Because, if I’m being completely truthful, I can’t even tell you my number off the top of my head (if that wasn’t obvious from my initial interaction with the nurse).
And, immediately, I want to justify that answer with, “But it’s not because it’s a big number. Seriously. I just stopped counting.”
But I’m doing it again. I don’t need a justification if I don’t want to count. I don’t need to count. I have sex when I want to have sex because I’m in the moment with another human with whom I’m choosing to have sex.
And who gets to define a *big* number anyway?!
The most important part, for me, is guarding my heart. Because, here’s the thing, I want to have a lot of sex. I don’t want it to be with a lot of people. In fact, I’d really like for it to be with just one person. Because, for me, the most beautiful part about sex is learning someone’s body. To memorize every curve of his being and intoxicate myself with the familiarity of his smell. To taste each other inside of selflessness. Again. And again. And again.
With that being said, I don’t place any rules on the number of dates I must go on with a man in order for him to remove any articles of my clothing. Because these rules are arbitrary. They confine me into thought patterns that might not serve me. They assume that math is the foundation for a fruitful relationship.
I do make sure I’m in the right headspace. If I can unequivocally say, pre-sex, that I’m okay with him never speaking to me again, then I know that I’m not using sex as a tool for my personal gain.
If I’m anxiety-ridden about his potential silence, then it’s my sign to have the conversation. One of those shitty ones that I’m really good at initiating. And if he can’t give me an answer based on any of my articulated expectations (i.e. we aren’t going to sleep with other people if we’re sleeping with each other), then I know that having sex is only going to breed a deeper emotional connection – for me – that he is not going to be able to reciprocate. And, at that point, I’m out. Because, boundaries.
Like everything else in life, sometimes I fuck up. Royally. Sometimes I lie to myself that I don’t care. Sometimes I tell myself that he’ll be enamored with me if only I give him this one thing (usually because I already think that he’s enamored with other things about me, as well). Sometimes I sleep with him before initiating that shitty conversation when I genuinely do have an interest in his responses.
It should then come as no surprise that sometimes I’m confronted with answers that bruise my self-esteem, or I’m rudely awakened to the reality of him never speaking to me again (how this continues to be a thing, I actually don’t know).
And every single time, that sucks.
But, here’s the thing about dating these days. You’re actually not. It’s like a slightly upscale version of hanging out that can – and often times does – involve sex, but definitely avoids at all costs entering into any realms of exclusivity (you can read my thoughts on The Commitment Crisis here).
So, I repeat. As a woman, I feel like if I go there too soon, I’ll be deemed scandalous. If I don’t go there at all, the relationship will most certainly not progress past the friend zone. And, if I inquire about what happens after it happens, I might as well be asking for the man’s hand in marriage.
Look. Men, I don’t need anyone to put a ring on it. I just want to know that I have a person to come save me in the event of car troubles. I’d like to cook you dinner when you’ve had a long day at work. I want to beat other couples in cornhole and pitch a tent with you at the base of a big mountain and drool on your shoulder on a flight to New York for a long weekend. Rad things. Then, the amazing sex.
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Disclaimer. Please do not DM me dick pics after I publish this piece because of the sheer fact that I said that I enjoy sex. You’ll just be proving my point, and I’m not actually interested in being – or staying – right about this story. For centuries, men unapologetically used women for their bodies. Females have permission to express their interest in pleasure without the male ego making its own inferences. If we are wise, we’ll recognize that we’re all playing on the same team.
