I came across one of a series of posts the Blowfish Blog in which the writer talks to a group of young women about sex. The discussion was about knowing when one is ready to have sex. She points out that the girls in the session weren’t exactly innocent little darlings, but that they - and she - had a uniformly uncomfortable time with item number 1 on the list of things one should be clear on before having sex. What was it?
#1 Know how to give yourself an orgasm.
Personally, I think this is excellent advice. I think more women should be encouraged to explore themselves and should be allowed or enabled to understand what gets them off. Sure it’s a private thing, but masturbation shouldn’t be something that gets you laughed at or ostracized either.
The reaction to it is interesting though. I honestly cannot count the number of times I’ve heard women refer to their virginity in terms of a gift to be given to some special man, or as a precious commodity they must stand guard over until they are safely wed. Some people go to the extent to “protecting” women from their own sexuality by doing everything from raising them to be practically asexual in their ignorance of anything below the waist to mutilating their genitalia in childhood. And yes, I class all of this under the same category. They’re extremes, certainly, but the underlying cause or justification seems the same to me: make sure women are not, or are unable to be, sexual except in relation to a man.
I, like most of you, received a similar message growing up. Lucky for me, I’ve always been a cussedly contrary so-and-so. From the moment when I cottoned on that my mother was being less than honest about certain things, I realized I’d have to take my education in all areas into my own hands if I was to learn anything of value, specially about this big bad thing called ’sex’.
I’ve always been on cordial terms with my body. I love being naked and I think I might possibly hold some kind of record for the speed with which I can disrobe, regardless of how many layers I may be wearing. I’ve always - from age seven, which is when I first got a full-length mirror in my room - loved looking at myself. Not in awestruck admiration, mind you. Just out of curiosity. Examining and poking and stretching and just looking at how it all fits together and figuring out what it can do. It’s just like how, every time I move to a new house, I spend a bit of time getting to know it inside out because I want to be able to navigate it with confidence. I don’t know which exploratory activities I embarked on first, but I think they’re related.
Given all this intrepid exploration, I suppose it was to be expected that I had my first orgasm at 14. I remember the whole thing vividly, including the way I rolled over and giggled afterwards. Not out of embarrassment, but joy. “Oh my god. Best. Thing. Ever.” - that sort of thing. Yes I was by myself. I wanted to tell my best friend about it and I almost did, but something stopped me. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing - that’s not the sort of ammunition you want to give another teenager.
Needless to say, I didn’t look back. But was it a gateway to irresponsible, unfettered sexual ‘expression’? Hell no. I wasn’t going to share. Specially when my friends, all through high school and college, would go on and on about how uncomfortable, painful, uninteresting and unexciting sex was. I think I knew a grand total of one girl who claimed to actually enjoy sex, but even she didn’t really know what an orgasm was. All told, I was having a much better time than them. At the same time, I’d hear guys trading stories about the ‘cherries’ that they’d ‘popped’ and I felt nothing but revulsion both for them and for the girls who’d go on about how ’special’ they felt.
The more conservative side of my world also revolved around the hymen. Now that I was old enough, my mother fretted constantly that I’d have sex with some random boy and thereby “ruin” my life, because obviously any man I married would be after the evidence of my chastity, of which he would then relieve me.
As I said, I’m a contrary cuss. So when nobody was looking, I didn’t just move the goalpost, I chucked the fucker out of the stadium.
I’d done gymnastics and danced a fair bit so I wasn’t sure I’d really have much of a hymen anyway, plus I’d been able to stick various things inside me comfortably enough. But I decided a final solution was needed so I got myself a mirror and a something rather large that I won’t specify and proceeded to remove every trace of useless tissue. It was quite pleasant, though I do remember thinking that it would be nice if there was someone else on the other end of this thing every now and then - arms tire too, after all. But the point of it was that I wasn’t going to put up with any of this ‘having’ and ‘giving’ nonsense. In the event that I had sex with a man, I wanted to worry about neither physical discomfort nor the emotional/psychological/[can't find the right word] discomfort of having some man assume he had something on me. It wasn’t about coming across as some sort of ultra experienced femme fatale - anyone who’s been to bed with me knows I’m more likely to laugh than to smolder - but about resisting this conferring of ’special-ness’ that plagued my peers. After all, a penis is just one of many things that can fit nicely into a vagina.
When I did have sex with a man, it was quite a bit after everyone else and, it seems, quite a bit better. The man in question was lovely and there was that instant chemistry that makes my skin tingle. We discussed it before we did anything - if you can call a series of intensely filthy conversations a ‘discussion’ - and then had at it. It was lovely, uncomplicated fun and nothing more. I did not feel any more ‘like a woman’ or any of that nonsense. The actual mechanics of tabs and slots worked better than I expected, but, really, if that had been all I wanted, I needn’t have bothered with a man. What I wanted, and liked in particular, was the contrast between our bodies. I love women for how familiar their bodies are, but I love men for their difference. The way they’re put together is different, their skin is different, their angles and planes are different, the hair on their bodies is different, their smell is different, their weight is different, their strength is different.
Oh and the plumbing’s different, obviously. But penises don’t matter so much. I mean, I think it’s rather sweet how invested men seem to be in their penises, but they’re really not the point, as it were. Obviously they need them to get off with, but, well, I don’t. And actually, I think that’s what makes sex less of a stressful thing for me. I don’t particularly care if I don’t come because I can do that any old time. I’m more concerned with enjoying all the rest of it, which for me includes, but isn’t restricted to, making the other person come. Of course it’s lovely when the favor’s returned, but I’m not hung up on it. Passionate, sweet, violent, intense, gentle, sublime, whatever, sex is - and to my mind, should be - above all simply joyful and fun, whether you do it with another person, with any number of other people or on your own.
This is a really great example of the whole “Sex Positive” philosophy. Encouraging young girls to think and learn about themselves sexually is a perfect example of a progressive way of thinking and hopefully will reduce accidents caused by ignorance.
Well said. Major kudos, sistah!
As a man, I have to agree with you on the penis section. learned a long time ago that you have much better luck getting people off when you don’t become preoccupied with your own wanker.