I write this blog to share myself in a way I don't feel permitted to in my "real life" and to offer a connection to other people who may also find themselves unable to come out of various closets. I also write to expand human dialogue. I am primarily motivated as a mother. Before I became a mother, yes, I was a feeling, sensitive person but I allowed myself to mask it with cynicism. I just don't feel comfortable in that mode anymore.
Real sexuality is something I don't often discuss with anyone, not even my husband, the guy I have great sex with. I am embarrassed and I am probably over-prudishly not interested in titillation; there is, for me, no in-between, no comfortable place to discuss this part of who I am. But, God knows, we need more health in this world around sex. And, I know, healthy sex can be very healing. So the good news in my sexuality department is that my husband and I have really great sex. Like many working parents, it is not "all the time" like I often wished for as a horny, mostly single gal in my 20s and 30s. But whenever we do get it together it's always a revelation. We're a good match.
As soon as I wrote this I thought of people reading it and I feel all sorts of uncomfortable feelings. Most of them related to me imagining they are thinking how can such an attractive guy have sex with such a tired old crabby flat-chested hag? See, there's the bad news already. I have a hard time reconciling my unfortunate image of myself to the sex goddess that I sometimes am.
I never wake up in the morning after a night of great lovemaking thinking: I am a sex goddess. I barely even think about sex (unlike my 20s and 30s) until I find myself doing it. I don't allow myself to bask in that revelatory, expansive feeling that I get for free as part of my marriage. I mean, really, I do get that it's a big bonus, so what's my fucking problem?
So much of not allowing myself this opportunity is part of a habit or learned way of being joy deprived that I suppose I am always up against. Part is about self-image, part is about tiredness, and part is about discomfort with letting my mind ramble along in sexuality-land--there are so many minefields of self-judgment there! I'm a fucking prude, for God's sake! I am a person who has never looked at Internet porn or gone to a porn store. I'm not sure, since I don't talk about this stuff, but I think in this day and age I must be a rarity, right? I find much porn and the idea of porn offensive but maybe there's something fun there too? Just the thought of watching people having sex makes me unbelievably uncomfortable, partly or maybe mostly because one of my feelings will probably be arousal. I feel like I couldn't just enjoy that feeling; I'd be thinking too many other analytical and self-critical thoughts.
As a longtime single gal for most of my adult life, I yearned for touch and love and sex. I was not one of those women who got all luxurious about pleasuring themselves, however. No, I was more of the school of: get drunk, have a one-night stand, repent for several months, repeat. In other words (surprise, surprise): fucked up.
I must return again to the good news: I now have a healthy marriage with a loving man. Since my 40s (contrary to every message breathed into us by the culture), I've been having the best sex of my life. Maybe in a future blog I will write about what "best sex" looks like (it's not all g-spots and sex toys, people; it's about attitude and process). I still struggle with the basic problem of integrating joy. But the news is pretty good, really.