Sex by numbers

To bring this particular partner to orgasm, complete the following steps:

1. Make out for less than one minute

2. Be gently forced to your knees to suck dick for a little more than a minute

3. Be lifted back up to a standing position and turned around

4. Have your bottoms pulled down just enough

5. Be fucked from behind for approximately three minutes

If you would prefer to do this differently or incorporate anything that might lead to you being pleasured, then you can try the following:

• Shyly bring up the fact that you guys have sex the same way, every time*

• Request that he perform oral on you, since you do it for him**

• Attempt to switch positions while you’re bent over the bed***

*This may lead to him explaining that this is the only way that he can get off and he’ll convince you that his needs are more important than yours.

**This may lead to him stating that he “doesn’t do that”, with a note of disgust that makes you think about the sweaty aftertaste his dick leaves in your mouth.

***This may lead to him exclaiming, “What are you doing?!” and then trying to get you back into position, only for him to lose his erection and make you feel bad for causing that turn of events.

Now, he’s really cute and you think that this maybe has some potential, so you go along with it for a while, ignoring the fear that you’ll never orgasm again. Once you master these steps, you’ll get a new surprise:

“Hey, I can’t see you anymore because I realized that I am in love with my ex-girlfriend and I wrote her this really long letter explaining my feelings and how I totally fucked everything up and how I want her back, and I gave it to her this weekend, and now we’re back together. Actually, we’re engaged.”

Immediately, you’ll feel shocked, and that’s okay! All of that potential is thrown out the window and you don’t want to be the girl that complains, so say “Congratulations” and give him a hug. He may linger too long and then grab your ass and try to kiss you. If this happens, then you can do one of the following options:

• Go along with it and have unfulfilling sex, probably in one of your cars, while his new fiancé waits for him at home

• Say, “Are you fucking serious?”, leave his embrace, enter your car, and drive away

If you go with the first option, then he’ll get what he wants and you’ll probably be left feeling shitty. If you instead go with the second option, then you’ll immediately get over this sham of a relationship and you’ll feel pity for his future wife because she’ll only ever have sex one way with a man who’s ready to cheat on her at any second.

AA meetings are probably not the best place to meet men.

Call it by name

I was raped when I was 21.

It took me many years to call it that. I was drunk. He was drunk. I was passed out. What did I say before I passed out? Did I ask for it? I don’t remember. He was my friend. He was a nice guy.

I had sex with him again after that. And again. I wasn’t drunk. I had a boyfriend. I didn’t want him to think that I was upset about the first time. I didn’t want to lose one of my only friends in this town.

Even longer to call it rape was what happened when I was 16. We were in a relationship. We had sex all the time. But sometimes it wasn’t what I wanted to do. Sometimes it was forced. But I already said yes before. And he was my boyfriend. And I loved him. And it didn’t hurt and I didn’t say no.

It took me the longest to say I was raped at 15. He was 23. It was consensual. I wanted it. But why did I want it? Why did he want it? When I said yes, did I understand what I was saying yes to? He did.

Calling rape rape takes practice. It feels foreign, wrong. Like when you can’t come up with the right word so you use it as a placeholder until it comes to you. But it is the right word.

I learned about rape from movies. Used constantly as a device to move the plot along, raise stakes, sexualize an actress without taking away her character’s purity / desirability. It was violent, clearly wrong. No grey areas.

In my quarter semester of sexual education, a woman talked to us about the two times she had been raped. Both were by strangers, in a parking lot or alleyway. Both were violent. In both, she was clearly the victim. As I’ve grown and learned and experienced more, I’ve wondered whether she’s really only ever been raped twice.

Men don’t like to talk about rape. But how many of those men have raped? The first person to call what happened to me at 21 rape was a man. Is that what it took for me to call it rape? A man accepted it as such, so I could finally? Would that man classify my other experiences as rape?

We do not give our permission to be assaulted, but we are conditioned to seek permission to call it by name. Is there proof? It’s his word against hers. Was she an acceptable rape victim? Would this have happened at some point regardless because of her actions? Is my rape(s) accepted?

Being 15 and having a 23 year old bassist attracted to you is cool. I am desirable. By an older man. Thus, I am a desirable woman. No, I was a child desired by a pedophile.

Too harsh a term? Did you clench at the word? Our society is conditioned for pedophilia. Women: do not age. Do not grow hair on your genitals. Do not have sexual history or desires. Otherwise, men will not want you. Why do men want women whose bodies are childish? Why do we accept these terms? Why do we say it’s okay as long as they’re 18 or as long as the age gap isn’t too wide?

A 23 year old knows far more than a 15 year old. And he definitely knows that he can take advantage. And that’s what he did. I had sex with him. I had unprotected sex with him because he didn’t like condoms. I showed his brother my boobs because he told me if I didn’t, then I didn’t care about him. And then he punished me by not talking to me for days. And then I begged him to forgive me.

That was rape.

He told me to tell my mom that he was 19. Still illegal, but better; and she didn’t know we were having sex. He knew it was wrong. He knew she would not approve. He told me his name was Brett. It wasn’t. He protected himself with no consideration to me. He knew I would listen and do what he asked because I was 15 and he was 23 and that is the dynamic. So of course I had sex with him in any form he wanted. In public. In front of his friends. Because he was 23 and he liked me and a woman’s value is being desired by men. And I had a head start at 15.

We stopped talking abruptly. A girl from school later started dating his brother (the one who saw my boobs). She cornered me in the hall and asked if I knew him. And then started to talk about it all like I was in on the joke. I wasn’t. But I couldn’t tell her that. She said, “do you know his real name?” as I walked away. I did, but only after we stopped talking via MySpace sleuthing. She didn’t need to know any of this.

He worked at a mall kiosk when we were together. A few months later, I was at the mall with my friends and I saw him before he saw me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him see me and I saw him hide. He did not see me see him. He knew it was wrong. I bet someone thought he was a good guy.

I was an ugly child who grew into her own at 14-15, so boys’ attention was new to me and I was desperate for it. But I was also terrified of it. I only liked boys who I knew wouldn’t like me back so that I could pine from a distance and not get hurt. Already knew they would reject me so it didn’t hurt like an actual rejection would. And somehow that would keep my reputation clean because I wasn’t doing anything that could be talked about negatively. Just crushes. 

A boy from another school liked me. And I liked him back. No one at school knew him, so it seemed safe and I became mysterious because my boyfriends were never from our school. He was so nice. And that’s what I needed. He was cute, and a football player, and he was nice.

We got together and had sex for the first time two weeks later in a movie theatre, and then in a Starbucks bathroom. I didn’t want to, I was fighting with my mom about the length of my skirt on the phone, but he kept pushing for it. He already said he loved me so why shouldn’t we do it again? In public. In a bathroom.

That was rape.

He was friends with a boy who I knew as well. I thought he was cute and we had kissed months before I met my boyfriend. One day, a group of us were hanging out and we were having a great time when the kiss was brought up. My boyfriend left the group and walked away without a word. Confused, I followed him. He wouldn’t talk to me.

Another of his friends was getting in their car and my boyfriend got in too. I ran after, asking him to wait, but he wouldn’t. They turned and drove toward me. I thought he was coming to talk to me, but instead I had to jump out of the way to not get run over. I started crying, pleading.

The car stopped and he got out. He made me swear I would never treat him like that again. I honestly didn’t even know what I did, but I swore and cried and begged. He finally took me back.

After that day, he wasn’t nice anymore. And I never could make him happy. But I sure tried. And that usually meant doing sexual things that I wasn’t really into doing.

He was a very spoiled child with his parents. Though he was 17, he did not have his license because his parents would drop everything to drive him. One night, his dad drove me home from their house. We were sitting in the backseat of the truck, with the front seats like a bench, creating a visual wall halfway up between the front and back of the cab. He asked me to give him a blowjob.

I said no. His dad was right there. He insisted. If I loved him, then I would do it. So I did. I leaned over and sucked his dick until he came in my mouth and down my throat. When I lifted my head, no one said a word. He just smirked and put his arm around me.

That was rape.

Did his dad really not know? Was this a power play between them? Was it just too awkward to say anything? At the time, I assumed we just got away with it, but now, I’m positive he knew and didn’t intervene. My boyfriend was not a good guy.

Eventually, his verbal and emotional abuse turned physical, and that’s when people started paying attention to the dangers of our relationship. Emotional manipulation and continual rape are totally okay, but a slap must be stopped!

Not that I’m complaining that people took that seriously, but my life was still completely changed after this experience and the trauma ran deeper from the things that were shrugged off.

Relationships were tricky after that one. I had burned a lot of friendships as my ex demanded all of my time and attention, as most abusers do, so I was incredibly alone and didn’t really know how to interact with people anymore. I wasn’t me anymore. I just did what I thought anyone around me wanted because I didn’t want to bear the consequences of doing the wrong thing.

It would take over a decade to unlearn that behavior. At 27, I had a major breakdown where I realized that I have no individual qualities. Everything about me was based on who I was with or around or trying to impress. Did I actually like something, or was it because a guy I was into preferred it? Are these really my beliefs or am I just agreeable to not make waves? Is there any part of me that exists without dependency on someone else? The answer was no. So I had to build myself up from nothing to what I am now.

When I was raped, I wasn’t just sexually penetrated; I was emotionally and mentally destroyed. But I didn’t know it. And I couldn’t talk about it. But it’s my fault. And I deserve it. And it’s what I wanted. So this destruction just festered within me, eating up anything left that was actually me to avoid being hurt again.

At the end of my senior year in high school, I started a relationship that would last for over three years and span my college experience. We did not attend the same school or live in the same city, so we continually drove 2 hours to see each other every weekend.

College was lonely. I lived off campus with some amazing women, but it lacked the community that you typically get in the dorm life. And because I was either gone or spending every moment in town with my boyfriend, I wasn’t really making any connections outside of the classroom. Once I got halfway into my second year and started taking writing classes and not just GE courses, I began finding real friendships.

One of those friends was my third rapist. He was a San Diego native and in a fraternity so not only was he well versed in the location, he was very social on campus. He brought me to parties, clubs, and interesting events all over the school and county and I was so grateful for his company, especially while I was away from my boyfriend.

I knew he liked me. We talked about it. But I really was in love with my boyfriend. We talked about our future together, me a writer, him a politician; and it included marriage and kids and the whole shebang. And I really wanted it with him.

In my third and final year of college, that dynamic shifted a bit. I was working really hard in my writing classes to hone my skills and to graduate a year early, while my boyfriend was slacking in school and smoking way too much weed. Those plans we had suddenly seemed less appealing and less likely with this version of him. So I was spending more time with my friend and less weekends driving to see my boyfriend.

I turned 21 in February of my final year. My friend was already 22. In March, he took me to Pacific Beach (PB) for margaritas on taco Tuesday. As a new, legal drinker, I didn’t have a lot of experience with professionally mixed cocktails. I mostly took shots of whatever shitty bottle was around and followed them with some kind of juice. I didn’t realize how quickly you could drink a margarita because it tastes so good and how suddenly the three huge fishbowls would hit your mental state, all at once.

I vaguely recall trying to get into another bar, but the bouncer denied entrance because I was too drunk. But the next bar let us in no problem.

He got me some pink mixed drink from the bar that tasted like shit and we attempted to play pool. I could hardly stand, let alone focus on a cue ball and take aim, so the game ended pretty quickly. Then it was black.

It was dark, and kinda musty. The air felt thick. I knew I was moving but I didn’t want to open my eyes. I realized that someone was on top of me and a penis was going in and out of my vagina. Immediately I thought, “my boyfriend is here?”. I turned my head onto the car seat headrest to look straight and I opened my eyes.

A shirtless back came into view, sliding up and down my chest, where my shirt was lifted over my breasts. The wire from my unhooked bra was digging into my neck as a hand was holding up my clothes and pressing painfully into my collarbone. There was so much sweat.

I looked over to the other side where a layer of steam had clouded the window. I couldn’t make out anything outside other than darkness. Were we parked at the beach?

I heard him grunting. I weighed my options. I could yell and push him off me, but I don’t even know where we are. We’re in his car somewhere. If I walked out, I would be mostly naked, lost, and he could drive away leaving me stranded. Did I make a move? Does he not realize I passed out? His head is down between my arm and breast so maybe he wasn’t aware. He drank a lot too. How did he drive us here? Where are we?

I couldn’t handle making a decision. Nothing seemed like the right call and I was too drunk to think cleverly. I decided my best option was to turn my head back to the original side, close my eyes, and pass out again, letting him finish. Which he did.

That was rape.

I don’t remember if I woke up again, but I know he took us back to my apartment and he walked me inside. I opened my eyes in my room, on my bed, and felt him next to me. He stayed the night.

My head filled with panic. I cheated on my boyfriend. He’s still here, right now, sleeping in my bed. I got so fucked up and I don’t know what happened, but we had sex. I was upset. I was scared. I was confused. I was hurt.

He was my friend, so he must’ve done this because I asked him to. I must’ve made a move and told him it was okay. I’m a shitty fucking girlfriend.

He woke up and touched me. Immediately I wanted to recoil, but I didn’t want to offend him so I leaned back into the little spoon position. He kissed my neck and then started moving his hands down my body. I felt his fingers rub against my clit and I slammed my eyes shut. I think I stopped breathing.

He then moved his hands to his penis, rubbing it into an erection. He flipped me over onto my back, spread my legs, and he was inside of me again.

I was stunned. Were we dating now? What happened last night? I lied there while he thrusted into me, moaning, and sweating profusely once more. I don’t think I made a sound.

He came inside of me and rolled to the side. Finally, I spoke. “Did you not pull out?” “No, I didn’t know I needed to. I thought you were on birth control.” I was, but I was also terrified. Even my boyfriend pulled out when we had sex.

He offered to get me a plan B pill. How kind. He got up, dressed, and told me he’d come back later. I didn’t move. Once he left, I went to the bathroom and felt his ejaculation dribble out of me as I peed. I hated the feeling. I hated the smell. I hated myself.

I went back to my bed and cried. I cried for my boyfriend. I cried for my friendship. I didn’t move until he came back hours later.

He complained about the price of the pills and about having to clean up the vomit that apparently I projectiled onto his car door. I wondered if that was before or after the car sex.

He sat on my bed with me, staring expectantly. I wanted to be away from him but I also didn’t want to lose my friend. He was in many of my writing classes and was the person with whom I have so many fond memories out here. I was upset but didn’t want to upset him, so I leaned in and kissed him. He asked if I had brushed my teeth yet. I hadn’t.

He laughed and then turned me over and pulled down his pants, and then mine. I guess we were having sex again, but doggy style so he doesn’t have to deal with my vomit breath. After he finished, he quipped that the plan B can now work for another one. He stayed and hung out all night while I died inside and played the doting sexual partner.

We stayed friends as I wanted, but it was always a little off after that. Thankfully, we graduated in June of that year and I moved out of town. Not long after that, I broke up with my boyfriend. I never told him about what happened, but I couldn’t recover from the experience. I didn’t deserve the future we had originally planned. I was dirty and empty.

I moved back to my parents’ house and found a local bar where I could drink for free and escape my trauma. It was there I met my next boyfriend. He was a wonderful man, but not a good match for me or for the time of my life I was in. I associated his love for me to his sexual desire for me; and though we had sex every day, I never felt like it was enough if I ever offered and he declined.

I sank deeper into unrecognized alcoholism, blacking out regularly, dangerously. I didn’t fear anything because I felt nothing.

At the end of that relationship, he told me something his father told him that stung so bad at the time but turned out incredibly poignant.

You two are not a good match because she does not love herself so she will never love you.

Following the end of this relationship, I sank into a deeper alcoholism hole and became a sexual object for anyone who would have me. Some encounters I remember, others I don’t. Some ruined friendships and some remained nameless. I couldn’t get close to anyone and I knew my only value was sex.

This is what rape did to me. It removed my identity. It removed my worth. And I let it happen. Because all of those experiences are my fault. I was just walking through life, alive but not living. Desperate for love but incapable of accepting or giving it.

The first time I thought of my most recent experience as rape was with a mutual friend. In a cross-faded haze, I told him that I slept with our friend and the circumstances. I described it as I believed it at the time: we had sex in college. We went out and I drank WAY too much and then I passed out and woke up to him having sex with me. Ha ha.

He told me that was rape. I said he didn’t understand. He said I didn’t understand. I didn’t say anything else.

I sat on that for a few more years without processing it. It was there in the back of mind, but never to be explored. He was my friend. He isn’t a rapist. I drank more. I had more sex. I felt nothing.

I was lucky and my path led me to sobriety rather than an early death. In my recovery, I had that breakdown that allowed me to rebuild myself. And as I started to unravel everything that was once my identity, I realized how much of it tied back to that event. And then further into my recovery and processing, I realized how much of what led to that event tied back to my relationship at 16, which wouldn’t have happened had I not been with the 23 year old.

I am not saying that the 23 year old is responsible for everything. But now I understand that none of this was my fault, either. I did not deserve the things that happened to me because of something I did or mistakes I made. I was preyed upon by these men and because I did not have the knowledge or the awareness of what happened to me, my mind and body reacted for me in ways that only now I can start to analyze. I told myself that I was in control of my sexuality, but in reality I was amputated from it and subconsciously punishing myself for the immorality that happened to me.

These events changed me. They changed my chemistry; my heart. And each change branched off into a path that led me into the new events that branch and branch until I’m no longer securely connected to my roots. I’m just floating, absent from myself.

I am not who I was. And it is expected that I would change from a 15 year old to an adult. But I didn’t have to change this way. This change was forced upon me, without my consent. Without even consideration. I was 15 years old. A baby. And a man who knew better used me. And that trauma made me desperate for something as simple as a nice boy. And I fell for one who knew that that’s how you reel someone in who is blind to the signs and ignores everything that tells her this isn’t right because she’s been hurt and hasn’t healed. And that closed me off and made me less social to where a single friend in a lonely city is worth holding onto even though he is a bad man. And that was the final blow that tossed me off the edge and I lost myself. And I was okay with that for a very long time.

But I’m not okay with it. I have found parts of myself again, and it is in a new form and it is angry. I have found my voice and I have plenty to say. These experiences happened to me, like they happen to so many others, but we are afraid to call them by their name. I am no longer afraid.

When I was 15, I was raped by a 23 year old.

When I was 16, I was repeatedly raped by my boyfriend.

When I was 21, I was raped by my friend.

Do they think about me? Do they have the slightest inclination of their impact? I have spent two decades detangling this mess, wondering if this new self I built is actually me or simply a byproduct of these experiences. Have they even spared two minutes? Do they consider the hatred I have for my body from it being sexualized so early and critiqued by them? Do they even remember me?

I am not afraid to call it by name, but I am still searching for the end of its reach. And I may never find it.

That one time I was almost cool

I am a woman known to be very outspoken and blunt when it comes to my opinions, my skills, my preferences, etc., but (even today) I have never been a person that can openly communicate my sexual desires.

Is this something only I experience? I can guarantee not. Women are taught to be submissive, wait to have sex until you’re married, don’t talk about your period or your body parts; and so we don’t really know anything about the whole situation and are expected to take the lead from our male partners.

And without knowledge, we lack confidence. Now, this is not a hard and fast rule, as we see with most white men in America condemning DEI, because they feel that they are qualified to do literally anything without any necessary skills or information about it. BUT as a woman or maybe just someone who doesn’t have that same blind confidence, usually the more informed we are about something, the more confident we are about that subject or in that realm.

As someone who came into sex without any actual education (read my introduction of sorts for more context; or just look at the title of this site), my comfortability level in this area has always been low and I’ve simply learned on the job. But, there was one time where this was (almost) not the case.

It was the year(ish) 2013 and I was visiting my friends in LA from my new locale in Orange County. In my LA years, I was a frequent visitor of the karaoke bar, Brass Monkey, because I love to improperly sing to a crowd, drink, and be able to walk home afterward to my or my friends’ apartments in Koreatown. On this occasion, I was on my normal routine, drinking whiskey that I pretended to like to be “not like the other girls” (anyone who says that they don’t like a well-made cocktail is a fucking liar and lame as hell. They’re delicious and un-gendered. So just enjoy them!), just killed Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and smoking a cigarette right outside the front door.

A very cute fella walked up to the bar with his friends and made eyes with me over my Kamel Red exhalation while walking inside. I smiled to myself, wondering if I would see him when I went back. Then, a few minutes later, when I was just about done with my smoke break, he came out with a smaller subset of his group and headed back to the car. He gave me small smile and walked past me without a word.

So I said, “Wait, you’re just gonna leave and not say anything to me?”

He turned around, surprise overwhelming his expression. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You come around here looking like that, make eyes at me while I look like this, and then you are just gonna leave without even trying to get with me?”

He laughed in shock and stayed rooted in his spot between me and his friends, who have now reached their vehicle. “Okay …” he started. “Give me a sec.”

He met with his friends while I watched from the door, now taking my last drag and stamping out my cigarette. After a quick conversation, he waved goodbye and walk-ran back to me. I smiled and said, “Best decision you’ve made tonight.” We walked inside together and he spent time with me and my friends at the bar. It was there I learned his name: Hunter.

After some time, we decided to leave. He lived in LA, but not close to Koreatown, so he got us a cab to drive almost 30 minutes to his place. On the way there, he explained that he lived at his parents’ house but had his own place on the property, like a detached guest house. I was a little skeptical at first, but I was already in the car and felt really fucking badass that I saw him, wanted him, and got him; so I was there for the ride.

But, his parents’ house was ENORMOUS! He lived in the fancy-ass part of LA, where movie stars and executive producers reside and his “room” was larger and nicer than any apartment I’ve ever had. So, I couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to bail out on this situation.

We walked through a code-protected gate, down the stairs past the main house, and entered his quarters. There was a lot to take in, but as soon as I started to try, Hunter pressed his body into mine and kissed me. It was a passionate kiss and I immediately was turned on. In my head, I was again reveling in how this night went and was so happy that so far, this hasn’t been a bust. He was a great kisser, and that’s the first sign that it won’t be a terrible lay.

We got to his bed and clothes started coming off. After some hand play, we were both ready to take this to intercourse town. He grabbed a condom (phew) and entered me from the missionary position. It was great!

We then moved positions and I was now on top. I really was feeling amazing. The sex was great, I felt super powerful for making this happen, and now I was in control. “You like that?” I asked, breathlessly. “Yes!” he moaned.

And then I asked, “I’m not too fat for you?” …

I’ve always been fairly curvy. I have wide hips and huge breasts; but for most of my life, I had a small waist. Very Jessica Rabbit or Joan from Mad Men-esque. At this point, I was deeply into my alcoholism, so I wasn’t as trim as I have been before, but I was definitely still thin. Especially now in my life, when I have put on weight due to stress, aging, life-changes, whatever, it’s hilarious that I thought I was fat then.

But this is what happens when you’re so conditioned to be a certain way. Even in times when you think you’re changing the narrative, the same expectations arise and you have to handle them. I felt so in control. This was what I wanted and I made it happen. I was leading this sexual encounter. But, in the midst of it, I still questioned if I was good enough for the male gaze. Was he satisfied? Was I what he wanted? And that’s what came out during sex, following a stream of badass lady moves to get there.

He immediately responded with, “What? No!” and we continued on. But I was haunted by this for the remainder of our time together.

When we were done, he gave me a ride back to my friends’ house in Koreatown. It was a fairly silent half hour drive back, punctuated by flashbacks of the awkward moment continually pinging my brain. When we arrived, he asked if he could have my number. In my embarrassment and desire to forget this whole thing ever happened, I was bitchy and said, “Why? We’re never gonna see each other again.” and I left the car.

I got into my friends’ place, took my spot on their couch, and thankfully fell asleep immediately to avoid thinking about it.

The next morning, my friends got up to go to work and asked me how my night was. I lied and said it was good, and while I was getting up, I realized that I didn’t have my phone. I logged into my friend’s “Find my iPhone” app and saw it blinking up in the LA hills, definitely left in Hunter’s parked VW Jetta.

I sat with this information for so long, debating what I should do. I was very broke back then, so getting a new phone wasn’t really an option. And since I was a complete dick about exchanging numbers, there was definitely no way to contact him. But I had the location of my phone, which was in his car, which was at his house.

I made my decision and drove to his house and sat in my car for a long time, staring at the code-protected entry gate. If I could just get through the gate, I could walk down to Hunter’s room and just get my phone and run away as fast as possible. But I couldn’t get through the gate. And I didn’t think I could get my phone without involving his parents.

When I approached the fence, I saw a doorbell. I took a deep breath, muttered how stupid I was to myself, and then pressed it. A woman’s voice came on, “Hello?”

“Hi, I was here last night with Hunter, and I left my phone in his car and I was hoping I could get it.” I could feel my face reddening as I blurted out each word through the tiny intercom.

“Oh, okay,” she said with surprise. “Hang on a second.”

“Thank you!” I silently begged for an apology.

The gate opened and instead of Hunter, a beautiful brunette woman in a crisp, white robe came out. She was obviously in the midst of blowdrying her luxurious hair. She was stunning, and looked maybe 10 years older than me. My entire life flashed before my eyes, making me wonder what the fuck have I been doing because I knew I wasn’t going to be this woman any time soon.

She was incredibly kind and stated that she had a set of his keys at their house so she figured this was easier than waking up Hunter. She unlocked the car and I opened the passenger seat door, saw my phone wedged between the seat and floor, grabbed it, and walked back toward his mom. “Thank you very much,” I said, feebly.

“No problem! I honestly didn’t even know that intercom worked anymore! I’m glad it did.” She smiled and waved as she disappeared back behind the gate.

I reentered my car, with my heart beating so fast. Would she tell Hunter about this? What would he think? Would he wonder how I knew where the house was? Would he think I am a stalker? I was riddled with worries and questions, but I knew I had to drive away immediately in case he came out. I couldn’t handle anything else at that house.

Never again did I see or talk to Hunter, but that night / morning lives rent-free in my mind, even today. It was such a high and low moment of my twenties. I felt so confident and sexy, and I was fucking thrilled about that. And then I pulled a subconscious move that completely reversed all feelings and outcomes of the interaction. I was no longer this cool chick who saw a hot guy, fucked him, and felt good about it; I was now the insecure girl who pretended to be confident, but was thwarted by all of these learned conditions that told her that she was there to please him, not the other way around.

It’s hard to navigate sexuality when you have a weak foundation and you learn through experience. Not all experiences are bad, but I think for most women, they’re not always what we would envision for ourselves. But we don’t recognize that until later because we don’t even feel capable to envision anything for ourselves in this regard. I hope that women become more confident in their sexuality and they can create their own personalities within it rather than simply being there for what their partners want.

I have always been a chameleon for my sexual partners. With this instance, I tried to not be, but I obviously felt lost and confused so resorted to insane questions to ensure that I was doing the right thing. I want to be my own person with my own desires, and thankfully my husband very much encourages this, but it takes a lot of work to unlearn all of this shit we’ve been fed for years. We are not here to simply please our partners through any means necessary; we are here to create enjoyable experiences with and for each other to acquire intimacy alongside the physical pleasures.

The first time

I was 15 when I lost my virginity.

I honestly don’t even really know why I did it, other than curiosity and the desire to fit in. One of my best friends was having sex with her boyfriend and I was just fascinated by the whole thing. She was with an older, experienced boy, so their relationship seemed incredibly adult and the variety of their positions, locations, and actions blew my mind. What were some of these things?!

I had never really had a boyfriend. I was consumed by crushes, but also chose boys who wouldn’t like me back so that I could stay at arm’s length. Truthfully, I was terrified. In sixth grade, I liked a boy named Matt, and he actually liked me back! We were “dating” and the one time that we hugged between classes, my face turned bright red and I ran away. That’s where I’m coming from going into this less than three years later.

But I did receive male attention, which was new for me as a child who was never the cute one. In eighth grade, my tits came in hot, I dyed my hair its now signature red color, and I was part of this trio of hot girls. This made me a new target of boys’ affections.

Though, of course, it wasn’t really affection. It was sexual harassment that you had to laugh off and accept graciously in lieu of sonnets and poetry. The more abuse you endorsed, the more time they spent on you; and that was all any of us wanted, unfortunately. So, obviously, having sex was a logical next step.

My first sexual partner was a boy named Jordan. He was cute, quiet, and dabbled in the stoner and punk culture. Looking back, I’m not totally sure what drew me to him. I think I figured he wouldn’t be mean to me if he found out I liked him. And he wasn’t. At least not in the straight-forward way.

We planned our sex like an actual event. We had a date and time set and my mom dropped me off at his house. She knew what was up, but she has been good about letting me make mistakes on my own. I should’ve stayed in the car. He answered the door in sweatpants! But my self-esteem was pretty low and I’d already made the commitment, so I stayed.

That’s a thing I’ve noticed in my sexual history: I feel compelled to continue no matter what if I’ve already gone so far. It’s like that perpetual need to for women to be polite, don’t make waves, stick to your commitments. And because I had literally no background knowledge or experience, I did not have any confidence to speak up for myself. How do you know alternatives if you don’t know any of the options?

We went into his house and he had a couple of friends over. I didn’t know that that was part of the plan (again, we literally scheduled this shit). I waved hello as they were people I knew and followed Jordan down the hall to his bedroom.

The walls were filled with posters of Kotton Mouth Kings and similar groups and strings of lights that gave the room a green glow. The TV was on, playing (you guessed it) Kotton Mouth Kings, providing more light and the soundtrack to the loss of my virginity. He led me to his sloppily made bed.

We didn’t say much. We both knew why I was there. He kissed me for a minute and laid me down onto the bed. His hand moved up under my shirt to my braless nipple and he pinched it until it hardened. I enjoyed that feeling.

Slowly, our clothes came off. I was so nervous for him to see me naked as the first person to do so, but he gave no indication of his opinions on my body. At least he didn’t recoil, I guess. He grabbed a condom, unwrapped it, and stretched it down his penis. I was fascinated: I’d never seen a condom or how it was used. I noticed the ring at the tip of penis and vaguely recalled a conversation long ago where his friend mentioned he had a pierced dick. What a wild thing for a 16 year old to have.

He asked if I was ready and I nodded. I was so nervous that I couldn’t speak. He got on top of me and penetrated my vagina. I was no longer a virgin. This was sex.

And then he started pulling it out and then back in. I was confused. I thought sex was just inserting a penis into a vagina and sitting there for fifteen minutes. That’s what random conversations in movies had taught me at least.

I had never seen porn or even watched a sex scene in a movie. My parents were very quick to fast forward anything as soon as something started. And because my formal sexual education focused on NOT having sex, I actually knew nothing about it.

I knew sex involved putting the penis into the vagina; and it was a huge movie / TV show trope to talk about sex being 15 minutes, so … sex is putting the penis into the vagina for 15 minutes. THIS IS WHY WE NEED ACTUAL EDUCATION!

While I was confused by what was happening, I was also paying attention to the feelings around it. It didn’t necessarily feel good, but it didn’t hurt like everyone said it would. I lied there, experiencing everything, without moving a muscle. I had no idea what I should have been doing, but it seemed like it was fine. Jordan eventually finished (in less time than 15 minutes), and he pulled out. I saw the condom now included white liquid at the tip as he removed it.

He got off the bed and brought me back a towel. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it, so I just took it and held it. “Do you want to go to the bathroom?” He asked.

“Yeah, I can do that.” I got up and put my clothes back on. He pointed to the door across the hall and I left the room. The bathroom lights were bright and harsh on my eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. I did it! I had sex.

After peeing, I wiped and found that things were fairly slippery. I was quite lubricated from the experience. Fascinating. There was no blood, though. I had heard that there would be, so again, I was confused. Did I do something wrong? When I went back into the room, I made sure to tell him that there was a lot of blood.

We hung out for a bit after that. I awkwardly lied on his chest while we watched more KMK videos. And then it was time for me to go. We kissed goodbye and I explained to my mom, defensively, that we just hung out and watched movies. Not a full lie, but obviously not the truth.

This was a Saturday evening. We hadn’t really discussed anything about our relationship, but I assumed that since we had sex, I would now be like my friend and I would try different positions and actions with Jordan. But on Monday, I found out that he had asked out another girl. That was a pretty shitty and unexpected blow.

So I figured out how to handle it and I decided that I would disassociate myself from it and treat sex as something insignificant so that it couldn’t hurt me. It was something that I was to do without feeling and without requiring a relationship. I was the cool girl who didn’t need anything in return while I gave away what they wanted.

And this is because I didn’t have any other information. Was it normal to have sex with someone and then they end up with someone else? Maybe, maybe not. Was this a possible outcome that I could have prepped better for? Absolutely, but I didn’t know about it. I just assumed my situation would end up exactly like my friend’s, or exactly like I’ve seen in the movies. And this was not something I saw in the movies.

I learned a lot of hard lessons about sex and relationships in my younger years, which allowed me to grow and improve faster than maybe others; but it did cut me off from understanding and enjoying intimacy for a long time. Sex without emotions, or at least pretending that you don’t have any, just led me to feeling empty, useless, and hurt.

I was so naive going into sex that I allowed things to happen to me that I could have easily prevented. But I wanted to know about sex and no one was telling me in a healthy, responsible way, so I figured it out for myself. I feel like this is the case for a lot of women. They’re led into sex by boys / men who are aware of and know how to take advantage of our gullibility and we have no baseline of what is actually okay.

After this event, school was weird. I had to pretend to be okay with Jordan dating someone else, with so many people knowing that I’ve now had sex, and with this new persona that I had to build as someone who has meaningless sex and has to hide that she actually knows nothing about it.

This major shift change led to some seriously shitty situations, including my first rape.

Introduction of sorts

I am struggling in this year of 2025. I feel helpless and I feel overwhelmed. As a sober alcoholic, it’s key to learn to focus on what you can control and ignore the rest because you can’t do anything about that. So, what I can control is my outlets. And this is an outlet that I’m choosing because I can write and I need creative expression.

I am a millennial, cisgendered, pansexual, white, American woman (leaning a bit on the non-binary side), married to a cisgendered, white, American man. I grew up in Southern California in a fairly Christian household, in a low to middle class financial situation. My mom and dad divorced when I was a year old, and she remarried when I was five, so those years where my mother was single with three children were pretty impoverished (though fun), and once the house turned into a double income partnership, we were always comfortable, but never rich or well-off. We managed.

I state all of this to set a baseline for my generalizations. I am writing as a creative outlet, but I am not a researcher, data scientist, or a speaker of all of those who identify as women. But, I can confidently assert that my experiences, though filled with potentially unique details, will ring relatable to those who share similar attributes to myself. And this is because most of us here in the US fall under the intense weight of patriarchy and capitalism.

I have lived (in my opinion) an interesting life. Not because I am a world traveler or have accomplished anything earth-shattering; but because I have learned about myself and society through my sexual endeavors. I have spent years processing my history in order to recover from trauma, to release relationship baggage, to stay sober, to help others understand their emotions, to make complex decisions, and to generally find happiness.

In this processing, I have taken away the power these experiences have held over me and I have even started to take my power back from them. This comes in various flavors, including finding humor in heavy topics, providing embarrassing details about what I’ve done, and to say some things that maybe others cannot yet.

As a woman in Christian America, I have been conditioned to be submissive, polite, virginal, and grateful for anything I have without asking for more. Because of who I am and how I grew up, I have struggled for a long time with sex and what it means as a woman in this country. I battle with feelings of guilt, shame, disgust, freedom, joy, confidence, disappointment, anger, frustration, power, worth with every sexual partner or even the memory of a sexual experience. But it’s not so simple to just feel different. Everything that you have learned you must unlearn; and that is a difficult thing to do when it’s unlearning things that have been forced onto you before you were even capable of questioning them.

And maybe you’re feeling the same way (maybe you don’t know it even). So, I want to talk about it to help myself continually unlearn these characteristics and perhaps encourage others to do the same. I am not here to judge people’s life choices, but I am opposed to society and culture dictating what we are supposed to do simply because we are gendered specifically. Just like with most of women’s rights, it’s not about changing it so everyone does it the opposite way, but so we all have a choice to go whichever way we want.

The simplest and most effective conversation to start (in my opinion) is about sex. It’s still unacceptable for women to be sexual beings and for us to feel like we have any power in that regard.

Because of my upbringing, I went into sex without any help. My teachers were movies, TV shows, friends my age, random comments here and there from my siblings. I never felt comfortable asking questions and I also was too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know something, so I just went into it, assuming whoever I was with knew enough to get things going.

And so I became the byproduct of my sexual partnerships, taking from them skills, expectations, insecurities, hurt, confusion. I thrived in abusive relationships and ran away from intimacies because I had no foundation of what is “right” or “normal” or “healthy”; and those initial experiences of mine took advantage of my naivety and my understanding of a woman’s role.

But I am grateful to know this about myself and about sexual dynamics in general because it has helped me create the person that I actually want to be. So I want to share that with you.

I don’t really know who’s reading this and what any of you will take away from it, but I certainly hope that I can do the following:

• Make you chuckle at least once

• Relate to you and some experience you’ve had

• Teach you something you didn’t know about women’s sexuality

• Empower you to talk about your sexuality and experiences

Get ready for whatever this is. Some writings will be reflective stories, some haphazard poems, some light and funny anecdotes, and some really fucking heavy offloading. So, read what you want and leave the rest.