A Letter to Sex
Dear Sex,
Oof, we’ve been through a lot, haven’t we? I must admit, I first heard about you on a TV show and didn’t really understand who you were. You were often associated with the word pleasure - but, as a child, that also didn’t mean much. It wasn’t until a teacher told me about you that I understood, without her saying it out loud, that you were shameful. You know that Mean Girls scene? “Don’t have sex, you will get pregnant and die” yeah, that was basically what they told us about you at school.
The only reason our school system thought it important to learn about you had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with abstinence until marriage and, subsequently, reproduction. I remember sitting in a circle with the girls in my class, we must have been about fifteen, and the teacher asked “Will you wait until you’re married to have sex?” We went around with our answers, all a variation of “Yes, because sex is about love, trust and children.” In many ways, that is part of what you are about, I suppose. Yet even then I knew there was more to you, and I was curious, but meeting you would signify a whole host of embarrassment and conversations I did not want to have.
So I hid from you and anything associated with you for years to come. My first period came and went and I told nobody. At some point, my mum had to assume it had happened because pads started appearing in my bathroom (although, looking back, I’d probably left some less-than-pleasant evidence that let her know beyond a doubt).
My main access to knowing you was through films and, I have to say, it was a little like looking at someone’s online dating profile (Best foot forward, beautiful and articulate. Yet when you meet them and go on a couple of dates you realise it was all a façade. In fact, it’s likely you were fully catfished). I’ll give it to you, though, you’ve done a fantastic PR job. All those shots of female pleasure, gripping sheets and reaching simultaneous penetrative orgasms with the other party really made me think our relationship would not be complicated.
How wrong I was. Shame and fear shrouded anything to do with you - even when done safely or alone. When my friends started talking about you in between giggles I felt abnormal. I didn’t want anything to do with you and, frankly, I didn’t think I’d find anyone who would want me. It hurt to put tampons in sometimes, let alone a penis. We were taught about the male orgasm and its importance to the essential objective of children but I don’t think we ever heard of the female orgasm, or even female pleasure (“Women can feel nice,” they would say, and that was the extent of it). I don’t mean only in school. None of my friends, even the ones that were sexually active, talked about coming. Figuring out how to get pleasure from you has been a journey on its own.
When I first went on the pill, nobody told me how it would affect my libido. It regulated me and got rid of pesky hormonal acne, but it took away the fun I could have with you. You know what they say, the pill giveth, the pill taketh away. I didn’t want to hear from you for a while after that. While my friends were having the time of their lives with you, I was wondering how I could possibly be so broken.
It took another few years to learn what vaginismus was, and figure out I had it (in one of the many occasions where I’ve wondered how was this not taught at school?) I realised you’d been trying to give me the answers for a while. Foreplay was more fun than penetration, and I always felt weird about that. I still remember the first time a friend pointed out foreplay was an antiquated term and really, it’s all a part of sex. As writer Madison James says, “The word ‘foreplay’ not only has bad PR but it’s completely ambiguous and impossible to define. Where does foreplay end and where does sex begin? How about oral — is that foreplay? How about masturbation? How about a passionate kiss?” So that’s where we started to rebuild.
I’ve been lucky enough to have a partner that respects my relationship with you. He talks about you and listens. For a while, I thought you were actively acting against me. You were painful, you didn’t want me to have fun, you were something I had to do, something I still feared. Slowly, I have figured out you are actually trying to work with me, and it’s been nice getting to know you as a friend.
Since coming off the pill, we’ve worked on our communication, figured out our pain points, and started to work out the knots in our relationship. We don’t have a perfect friendship yet, and I know there’s a lot more we have to think about. But we’re working on it, you and me. Confidently and safely. And for now, that’s enough.