I am a woman, and I love sex.
There, I said it.
I was really inspired to write this post after Penny Berry’s post about her introduction to sex. As time has gone on, Penny and I have realised that we have a lot in common, a lot of interests, a lot of views and a lot of personality quirks. Not only, but we were both raised in households that viewed sex as an unapproachable (at least, for us) topic, and both later learned that we like sex. Following a horrendous night with Wolfie I found myself listening to Kylie Minogue’s “Red-Blooded Woman”, and hence, the title of this post.
I grew up in a traditional household with both of my parents and my younger brother. I wouldn’t say that my parents were controlling, but they were extremely overprotective and perhaps sometimes controlling with it. Any cough or rash warranted medical intervention, and we had a little “sweet shop” with chocolate bars that my mother had pre-purchased so that we could learn the process of picking what we wanted, paying our money and saying thankyou to the cashier. I still have no idea why she did that instead of taking us to a real shop and teaching us there, but there we go!
As I grew up, I was naturally more curious about sex. It wasn’t something I’d had, but something that I’d heard of. Sex was supposed to be good, it was supposed to feel nice and I was curious about how it matched up. My mother would tell me that her and my father were going upstairs for some “bedroom gymnastics” (I cannot tell you how much it scars you once you realise what those noises really mean) and my young naive self would ignore it. At the same time, though, my mother was quite vocal in telling me that sex just wasn’t very enjoyable for women.
“If you lay on your back and spit in the air, you can probably spit further than a man can ejaculate.” I swivelled the computer chair around and looked at her, that didn’t sound very impressive. Mum also went on to tell me that she didn’t enjoy sex and she only did it to keep my father happy. From her years of experience then, sex didn’t sound like something that I wanted to have.
I remember the conversation well. We were hanging out in the old Sprite Alpine caravan and we’d been cuddling and kissing for a while. Wolfie and I weren’t in an official relationship, but there was definitely some chemistry going on. Given I shared a bedroom with my Gran, the caravan became a haven for some “getting to know you” , little did my mother know. I’d met another man since my eighteenth birthday, G, but he was deeply submissive and I just wasn’t suited for a submissive man. I was a leader, sure, but I needed (and wanted) someone who could challenge me and could even take over. Something that I’d seen in Wolfie.
“I’ve never wanted to do it with anyone else, but with you it’s different. I want you to be my first” I said, unsure of what I was really even saying. God damn him, what was this power he had over me?!
I still remember the day the caravan got towed away by it’s new owner. I watched from my bedroom window with a wry smile on my face. The old box had been home on many great camping trips, and home to my awakening, at least partly, when it came to boys.
After that, I used to visit Wolfie in his father’s flat. His father would be away for a few hours working a one-day-a-week cleaning shift and Wolfie and I would be up to all kind of exploits, including the night I lost my virginity to the man I madly loved.
After that, I was hooked on sex. Not just sex, but sex with Wolfie. He owned me, he used me, he abused me (consensually) and it felt great. He’d spank me and tell me what a slut I was. Anything he needed, I’d give to him. I was, in effect, his slave.
I remember the day he got with another girl. I was heartbroken, but happy for him. I should have known this was coming, I slumped back on my bed. I’d lost my virginity to a man who really didn’t want me. How foolish of me?
A few days later, a message pinged up on my computer. It was my friend, R. R and I had chatted occasionally, but we’d never met. This would be the first time. R offered to visit me at home and take me to a local beauty spot to hang out. Quite quickly, a new romance blossomed.
R visited me occasionally and we’d stay up and talk under the stars. Mostly, we were just good friends, unsure of where our relationship was going. One night we had a barbecue and R offered to cook. He was different, different to how Wolfie had been, but Wolfie was still on my mind.
“You’re trying to poison me now?” I joked.
“Nah, I’d never poison you” R said softly, and kissed me on the lips.
It was the moaning and groaning that turned me off. Dear God, we’re only kissing! Calm your testicles down! He started calling me Miss and I pulled back and looked at him,
So you’re another one of those..
R and I went camping together for five nights, though I can hardly call it a romantic getaway. I definitely did see a different side to him on that break, and I will say that the rings in the back of a Transit van are handy for holding down more than just cargo. For a while, a life travelling with a double bed and restraining points in the back of the van sure didn’t seem like a bad deal to me, but during the day we didn’t really get along. He smoked pot and I later found out he was returning back to Ireland to live with his Mum. The attraction went almost as soon as I realise he didn’t have the balls to tell me.
R left me with a box of gemstones and rocks that he collected, and part of me felt guilty about getting rid of them. I kept them for a while, but they were a painful reminder of what we had, even more painful than the cathartic spanking he’d given me before he left. They would be holding on and hoping he’d return to me someday, and with no date as to when I could expect him to do so. After 2.5 years wasted in an online relationship, holding on was something that I refused to do ever again.
I met G again while I was on vacation in Cornwall and he was just the same as he was before. Kind, nice and smiley, but also very meek and quiet. He intentionally lost at a game of 8-ball pool so that I would punish him called me “Miss” or “Mistress”, no matter who was in earshot of us.
So as not to seem too harsh about my decision, we wandered around the gift shop for a while. As we wandered, I couldn’t help but overhear Nelly ft Kelly’s Dilemma on the radio.
No matter what I do, all I think about is you..
Oh Wolf, yes, always.
Even when I’m with my boo, you know I’m crazy over you..
In the bar, I overheard Cascada’s take on Truly Madly Deeply, an awful rendition of the last dance at my eighteenth birthday. I looked at G, he was nice, but he just wasn’t the one for me. We parted ways, and I haven’t seen him since.
I remember the group cinema gathering well. Wolfie, myself and a couple of friends met for a screening of Hot Fuzz. It was the third time I’d seen it, but I’d happily see it again.
As we filed into our seats, J, Wolfie’s casual girlfriend, ushered me into the seat next to him. I looked at her, shouldn’t you be sat next to him?
After the movie, we walked J back to the bus station. Wolfie and I lived fifteen minutes apart, and he caught the same bus as me for a large part of my journey.
“I don’t know what to do about J,” he said, “it’s all gone a bit quiet. She doesn’t text me back like she used to.”
“Yeah? Well, R’s going back to Ireland” I sighed, I didn’t even mention G. As nice as he was, he just hadn’t been worth the mentioning.
The weeks following were a bit of a blur. Even in spite of wanting each other, and wanting to spend time together, we weren’t formally in a relationship. Wolfie and J were still unofficially together, and so were R and me. By the October, things had cooled with R completely and J was repairing things with her ex-boyfriend.
“Do you ever still think about us being together?” Wolfie asked me.
“Maybe” I teased, there was no way that I was going to give in that easily.
By December, Wolfie and I were seeing each other again regularly. I’d spend the night, sleeping on sofa cushions on the living room floor and he’d invite me into bed with him. A look, a word or a touch, and just as night leads to day, we would end up having sex.
I changed as a woman, I was no longer this shy timid creature that I’d been previously. I was free, I was living life and I was having sex. Lots of sex with the man I love. Sometimes we’d even spend the day in bed together, but it didn’t matter, we were happy.
I read very recently about a decrease in women who are willing to have or consider casual sex. To me, this is brilliant, it’s great. These are real and empowered women who are taking back control and putting their wants and needs first. This is the call of real women who are saying “hey, I like to orgasm, too”. More credit to them. I don’t have casual sex, but I have taken responsibility for my pleasure, and it is very, very empowering.
One of my biggest regrets is not speaking up about my pleasure when I should have. Women simply didn’t enjoy sex, I had been told, so I pretended to like it instead. I’m ashamed that I spent the first 8 years of my relationship faking my orgasms, but that’s a story for another time. Wolfie knows why now and he understands, that’s the most important part.
Liking sex doesn’t make a woman a slut, and nor does it make her easy. More and more women are becoming empowered about their pleasure and sadly some men really don’t like it. More and more women are refusing to sleep around and many women are standing up for the kinds of sex that they are after, and if a man won’t even consider what it is that she wants, then these newly empowered women have their new found strength to realise that they may just be better off without them.
I hope mys story has enlightened you. How did you overcome the stigma of being a woman who enjoys sex? Why not share your story in the comments?
Be Bold, Be Bright, Be Beautiful,