Ten years ago today, I made my sexual debut with a rainbow-haired girl in a sweltering attic bedroom. I prefer this phrasing – “made my sexual debut” – over the more traditional “lost my virginity,” because, as many wise people have pointed out before me, virginity is a construct that serves only to bolster the patriarchy, alienate queer folks and other sexual “deviants,” and disconnect us from our own bodily autonomy. It shouldn’t be the huge deal our culture makes it into – and yet, I also acknowledge that it was a huge deal for me. I felt different the next day, like things had shifted. They had. And they’ve continued to.
Here are 10 big lessons I’ve learned in 10 years of having sex…
Sex with men isn’t necessarily terrifying. The thought of sex with dudes gave me terrible anxiety for years before I tried it. Granted, this was partly because I was further toward the gay end of the sexuality spectrum at that point, but it was also a fear of the unknown. I had bought into media myths about how men are unreasonably horny cads who “only want one thing.” Yeah, there are men like that, but most of the ones I’ve dated and/or fucked have been comparatively lovely. I’m much more inclined now to view men as individual, variable humans than as part of an unsettling monolithic group – and my sex life is better as a result.
All genitals are basically similar. Speaking of “We’re not that different, you and I…” – it was revelatory for me to learn, from sex ed books and general experimentation, that the analogous tissues in vulvas and penises have way more similarities than mainstream media would have you believe. This anatomical knowledge helps me map, in broad strokes, my own bodily self-knowledge onto other people’s bodies, even if they look quite different from mine. It’s much easier to navigate other people’s genitals when I’m mostly thinking about how each feature relates to my own, and how each part likes to be touched.
Sex isn’t love, and love isn’t sex. It’s almost embarrassing to have had to learn something that seems like it should be so obvious. Mainstream media mocks women (and anyone, really, but mostly women) who confuse sex for love, so it took me a while to even realize I was making this mistake, because I considered myself above it. But there have been multiple times in my sexual career when sexual compatibility (or even just one really good fuck) has equipped me with rose-tinted glasses, rounding up decent sex into star-crossed romance. An ex-boyfriend from 2017 told me when he was breaking up with me that “aside from our sex life and our intellectual connection, we don’t really have anything in common,” and it took me many months to understand what he was trying to say: that good sex and good repartée weren’t enough to build a relationship on. My current relationship is fulfilling both sexually and romantically, and I feel I’ve gotten better at recognizing that type of connection when it’s there – and recognizing when it isn’t there.
“Why” is just as important as “what.” I’ve learned this lesson particularly with regards to kink, though it really applies to all forms of sex. You can’t really know someone’s sexuality just by knowing which activities they like to do; you have to know why they like to do them. For example, some people enjoy being spanked because they like feeling punished or humiliated; I, on the other hand, like it because I like feeling focused on, and I enjoy the meditative and cathartic elements of consensual pain. If you know what acts someone likes, you can give them a satisfying experience on the physical level – but to satisfy them more deeply, more electrically, you need to know why they like what they like. Likewise: you’re unlikely to find deep satisfaction for yourself through kink and sex unless you know specifically what motivates you to pursue these things.
Giving pleasure can be delicious. I was a very bottomy bottom when I first started having sex: my first-ever friendship-with-benefits was basically a year and a half of her going down on me, because that’s what we both were into. We had fun, but those experiences left me with a skewed understanding of sexuality. I wasn’t sure how to get pleasure out of giving pleasure, because I had never really done it. It took years of further experimentation with other people – and, eventually, discovering bliss through blowjobs – for me to realize all I’d been missing out on. Now I’m much more egalitarian in my approach to sex, and being a servicey good girl is key to my kinks.
“Romantic sex” is whatever you say it is. The traditional concept of “making love” is all about slowness, gentleness, meaningful eye contact, and whispered I-love-yous. It never appealed to me much, because – spoiler alert – I’m kinky as fuck, and like rough sex. It took me many years to figure out that kinky sex can be romantic too. I’ve rarely felt as loved or in love as I do when a partner’s just consensually pushed me to my masochistic limits, or spent 40 slow minutes working me up to take his fist little by little. If you expand your idea of what constitutes “romance” in sex, you expand your capacity to feel love, and that’s a beautiful thing.
Communication is crucial. I was very lucky that my first sexual partner was a sex nerd like me. We liked to stay up late on MSN Messenger, deconstructing our latest sex session in excruciating detail and planning what we wanted to try the next time. That relationship set the tone for all my sexcapades going forward: I not only enjoyed sexual communication, but actively craved it and needed it to feel fully comfortable and satisfied by sex. Whether we’re negotiating a session before it happens, discussing adjustments mid-bang, or debriefing after the fact, I always appreciate the opportunity to talk about sex with the people I’m fucking. Far from “killing the moment” or “ruining the magic” as popular discourse would have us believe, it makes everything so much smoother and hotter.
Kink transcends the bedroom. Earlier this year, I had a deliciously kink-nerdy conversation with my boyfriend in a fancy cocktail bar. We were discussing whether our D/s dynamic is technically 24/7 or not – and we came to the conclusion that it is, because even though we’re not “in role” all the time, he is always, on some higher level, the boss of me. I have the freedom to say no to anything at any time, but I have consensually given him my power, and we’re both always aware of that as we move through our lives together and apart. “I used to hear about 24/7 D/s relationships on shows like Sex is Fun and think, ‘That’s not for me; that’s not what I want,'” I told my boyfriend incredulously. “I thought that too!” he said. “And yet, here we are.” I’ve learned that submission is more satisfying for me when it extends outside of sex. I want to please someone so much more in a sexual scenario if pleasing them is also part of our connection more generally, our relationship, my daily life. This is part of the reason one-night stands don’t really appeal to me anymore!
Sex amplifies emotions. For me, anyway. I know not everyone is wired this way, and some people even get offended when you imply sex is connected to feelings. I personally have never really been able to separate sex from my emotions, and I no longer really want to try. Kink can stir up catharsis; bad sex can ruin an otherwise harmonious relationship; good sex can make me think I like someone more than I actually do. This isn’t to say I necessarily fall in love with everyone who fucks me well – I’ve been banging my current FWB for over a year, for example, and the most I ever feel toward him is a profound but platonic fondness – but the link between my sexuality and my feelings is important for me to keep in mind when I’m deciding which sexual experiences to pursue. It’s part of why I eschew sex on the first date now, and it’s why I tend to avoid kink with new partners on emotionally precarious days. Self-awareness is so helpful!
There is always more to learn about sex. I’ve been a professional sex writer for over six years and I still constantly discover new kinks, new subcultures, new sexual acts, new relationship styles, and new sexual communication tricks. This is largely what drew me to my career path: the sense that sexuality is infinite, and infinitely interesting. I don’t think I’ll ever stop growing and changing as a sexual person. Unlike the Buddhists, who believe desire is a torturous trap, I believe to want things is to be uplifted, inspired, and propelled forward. I hope I keep developing new desires for the rest of my life.
What did you learn in your first decade of having sex?