from that 18-year-old who found it all a bit cringe, who grew
up in a culture where the biggest insult you could level at a girl
was that she was a slag, or that she was ‘gagging for it’.
The good news is that unbeknown to me (I was knee-deep
in weaning, Thomas The Tank Engine and school runs), a quiet
sexual revolution has occurred since I last gave it serious thought.
I only have to scratch the surface and it’s there. First,
I come across Flo Perry. The daughter of artist Grayson
and psychotherapist and Red’s agony aunt Philippa Perry,
she has written a book called How To Have Feminist Sex. As
a millennial, Perry was born in the year I went to university
and seems a lot more woke than me on the subject of sex.
First, she tells me why sex is important: ‘We bond socially
through sex. It’s a form of communication,
which is why we often have deep chats after
it.’ Dr Karen Gurney is also on my radar
with her book Mind The Gap. She says,
‘Good sex has been shown to prevent a drop
in relationship satisfaction over time. It also
boosts mood, relationship stability and
self-esteem.’ (NB Dr Gurney is passionate
about spreading the message that good
sex is not just about penetrative sex and
orgasms.) I ask them both why I feel such
weirdness around exposing my sexual
desires. ‘There’s so much shame around
sex,’ says Perry. Why? She thinks we’ve
been conditioned to push down our sexual
wants because ‘it’s been in the patriarchy’s
interest for the desires of women not to be
prioritised’. Dr Gurney adds, ‘Women are
socialised not to be assertive, to put the
needs of others above their own, and that
translates to sex. We’re conditioned not
to be overly sexual or sexually confident.’
Day agrees: ‘As girls, we were raised to
be kind and nice, whereas boys were
raised to be assertive, mischievous.’
In initiating sex, I think women of my
generation can feel they make themselves
look needy. Which is sad when, according
to Dr Gurney, the stats show that if women
initiate sex, they enjoy the encounter more.
I wonder if there’s a generation gap here.
When I was growing up (I’m in my 40s),
to be the school bike was the ultimate slur.
Natasha, Red’s features director (in her
30s), said the cool girls were always having
lots of sex. That was a liberating light bulb
moment for me. It made me question why
I felt I could look sexy (I spent most of my
early-20s going out in a Wonderbra/hot
pants combo) but needed to be pliant or
vaguely ‘take it or leave it’ in the bedroom.
Then there’s body image, which Dr
Gurney thinks is ‘the number one sexualconcern among women’. (Interestingly, men’s is performance.)
A lot of us think that to be proud of our bodies, we have to
conform to society’s idea of what a sexy body is. Here, I have
to give my ex credit for only ever making me feel good about
mine, but I have still been known to shuffle out of a room
backwards so as not to expose my arse.
In a way, I feel as if I’ve been given the chance to rethink
my approach to sex. My split has opened up a new chapter of sex
with a man who doesn’t want hairless, porn star perfection, but
instead open communication and a genuine connection. As Dr
Gurney points out, in a new relationship ‘you can do something
unusual for you, but they don’t know that. It’s a freedom’.
For the first time in my life, I have thought about what I want
sexually. Not because my ex never asked, but because I didn’t
ever truly allow my brain to consider it.
So, how do I let go? Loosen up? These women have helped
me take the shame out of sex, to realise that wanting to have sex
doesn’t make me a needy, desperate woman. In fact, it makes me
strong and confident. And I feel pretty okay with my body (bar
the odd moment while trying on bikinis), so I should enjoy it.
When I first slept with someone post-split, I had moments of
self-doubt. They were mainly about how vulnerable and exposed
it would make me feel, or that I’d suddenly become transfixed
and want to marry said person. But, I took the one, two, three,
f*** it approach, which I take with all the slightly scary things
in my life. And you know what? It was fun and soul-enhancing.
Before, sex had become another thing on my to-do list. Wash
hair, buy groceries, have sex. It wasn’t like I didn’t enjoy it, but
it felt like going to the gym – an effort to get there, but you feel
better afterwards. Those young children years made me shut
down a little. When your body is not your own – pulled, prodded,
licked, kicked by small offspring – it doesn’t make you feel sexy.
But now, I feel energised and excited. I feel desire; that
body-tingling, synapse-firing desire I haven’t felt since my 20s.
I actively want to have sex
(it still makes me feel a bit
sick writing that line). Why
now? There’s no doubt it’s
triggered by physiological
and psychological instinct
to want to reinforce the
bond in a new relationship. But more than that, I feel freed
from my own imprisoning thoughts around it. I wish I’d taken
the time to examine where my constructs around sex had come
from before and been brave enough to address my issues in
my 20s. It actually took a major life event to make me do that.
So, looking forward, how do you sustain desire? Dr Gurney
says it’s about ‘keeping sexual currency’. ‘If they position you,
and you them, as someone they can’t keep their hands off, it
keeps it up.’ Fact: we all feel less sexy if someone sees us as
the child carer, the lunch maker, the taxi driver. So, if I ever
end up playing a role I didn’t audition for, I’m determined to
fight back. And be better at communication. Answer all
those uncomfortable questions. Ask my own.
Day, ever the sage, offers me advice: ‘Good sex? The answer
is that it’s about allowing yourself to enjoy it.’ Amen to that.‘I feel energised
and excited.
I feel desire’
Follow Rosie’s journey on Instagram @lifesrosiePH
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