So he would want to, you know, touch me, like, "down there," and I was nineteen and thought dirty magazines were something I'd found inadvertently in my parents' special under-the-bed hideaway (along with countless Christmas presents and unused clothing; it was a spot that transformed with the seasons) or the grumbly, overweight fathers of my girlfriends and cousins.
I never sought out any type of erotic literature myself and assumed sex would be, when it came, well, some kind of rapturous experience that would take me completely away and leave my mind in that silly little place called "Earth."
True to the textbooks, I really didn't experience my first deep sexual stirrings until I hit my thirties. By then I was through with sex, I thought. It was dull. It got on my nerves. It was a cheap date and an intellectual all rolled into one; it settled for anything and thought more of itself than it was actually worth.
But in my thirties, things got wildly, frighteningly sexual for me. Like the Great Wall of China suddenly crumbling due to a massive earthquake for which there is no warning system in place, my sexual walls went down, down, with a mighty sound, and, much to my complete and utter shock, I fell into Venus' outstretched arms with a vibrator and a wink and never looked back.
Which is why I know, when I look at photographs of my nineteen-year-old self with no body fat worth mentioning and a head full of hair that laughs at the word "gray," that it's just simply a cosmic joke, the Universe's way of laughing at us, that when our bodies are nubile, loveliest, smoothest, at their most limber, we either aren't allowed to use them sexually, can't find a way to do it, or, like me, simply don't care much for the stuff.
How can it be? How can youth be this magical time of perfection and the time when our brains are wired simply for, "Huh?"
I don't want to be one of those women that struggles into some tiny piece of fabric when I'm at the beach with my grand children just for the sake of wagging my finger at the tan nubile life guard on duty and crowing, "See, sonny, Mama's still got it!" No, no, that's not my style.
But I do want to keep drinking loads of water and shake my money maker whenever it's appropriate and possible. I have twenty years of wasted youth to make up for, after all.
Aimee Boyle is a regular contributor to Muscles and Sexuality on Empowher and writes freelance articles and blogs. Her website is http://www.straightandnarrow.yolasite.com
Add a Comment2 Comments
Thanks, Rosa!
I couldn't agree more; the chemistry and the partnership are very large factors in determining sexual satisfaction. I appreciate your comments.
Aimee
November 25, 2009 - 11:58amThis Comment
Sorry to hear about your young inexperience with sex-- or uninterest in it better yet. I have to say though, at 24, I certainly don't think it's wasted on the young. It's all about personal experiences and yes, in many cases young women fail to experiment with their bodies or do any sexual reading until they hit their thirties but that has not been my experience.
Thirties, though, is still YOUNG. I know many thirty year olds who look, act, and feel just as good as any 21 year old and they are enjoying every minute of it. Don't fret because you waited so long, the point is you got there. In all honesty, at 19 I had just started to have sex and my sexual partner was not really that adventurous. It took meeting my husband for me to realize that sex didn't have to be ordinary and that it was anything but.
Our partners have a big influence with how we feel and act about sex. But sometimes we have to take matters into our own hands. Glad you found your comfort zone.
November 25, 2009 - 7:49amThis Comment