Olivia Bennett
We’re not supposed to write about sex. That topic is confined to fictional characters and sociologists in studies and therapists in self-help books. But sex is a real thing, and most of us have it.
When I did it for the first time, he couldn’t get it all the way in. That’s horribly embarrassing to say now, but as far as first times go, it wasn’t a bad time. Just . . .awkward. He hovered above me as I hitched up my legs. It felt tight and full, in the way I imagine the casting feels while it’s being stuffed with ground meat, spewing out of a sausage stuffing machine.
Some of what they say is true about your first time. It’s awkward, it might hurt, you might bleed a little. But mostly I was just happy that it was over. Not the sex part, but I was glad that I wasn’t a virgin anymore. I was glad to be rid of that label. I had a penis inside of me, and that somehow made me different.
I’m pleased to report that the sex got better after that. It was a whole inner world that I got to explore. His body was an alien planet, I was the Mars Rover. Everything before penetrative sex felt timid, shy, and I was afraid that God Himself was watching through the tiny dorm room window, or peering in through the ceiling light. But everything after was ecstasy. Through his body, I was able to discover my own. In the process, we found untouched springs flowing with fresh water, wide, open fields, mountainous regions stretching toward the sky, valleys and rivers and lakes and beaches to lounge on.
Sometimes, we had a raucous time, sheets clutched in hand, toes curling, bed creaking. Phrases like fucking, doing the nasty, screwing, and bumping uglies come to mind. But other times, it was slow, tender, and we basked in the knowledge that we weren’t just creating love like one creates fire—by clashing together flint and steel, rubbing sticks together—but rather, that we were the love. That he was mine, and I was his. The
ultimate expression of togetherness. Perhaps, the most human thing we can do.
But sex complicates things. I’m not entirely sure why it complicates things, but it does. And sex isn’t always easy. It, like love, takes work.
That’s the thing, isn’t it. At least for me, sex and love are inextricably linked. I suppose some people have always been able to separate the two, or they can learn how, but I haven’t been able to. It might be because the only person I’ve ever had sex with is someone I love, but even before that, I knew I never wanted to “give it up” to someone I didn’t love. (Excuse how problematic that term is.) Even as a virgin, sex was too important to me. I didn’t want to get hurt; although, the truth of the matter is that we get hurt despite the protections laid around our own hearts. Someone can still hurt you so deeply without ever having sex with you.
But when you’ve had sex with someone, they know you in a way that most other people don’t. Not only have they seen you naked, but they’ve seen you bare, in the peaks and troughs of pleasure and pain. Aside from engaging with mind-altering substances, sex and orgasm is the most dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphin producing activity we can do. When we do it with another person, it’s like our minds and bodies take emotional photographs, ones we can take out and remember later: thumbing the printed ink, looking at the date on the back scribbled in hasty ballpoint pen.
The truth is, I don’t want everyone to see me like that. Not everyone deserves to see me at my peak. Not everyone deserves that level of intimacy, and that’s okay. But with a heightened level of connection and intimacy—one that works at the biological level—comes a heightened sense of entanglement. My mess has become one with his. We trade bits and pieces of ourselves, back and forth. Not to say that I couldn’t get
those pieces back, but it wouldn’t come without some scar tissue. Sex requires us to work as a unit, and that extends into every other facet of our lives, especially when my partner and I began living together. Suddenly, it’s not just you anymore. You’ve shared the most important parts of yourselves with another person—oh God, another person! How flawed and imperfect are they. Experiencing the highest highs with a
person almost guarantees that you’ll also experience the lowest lows with them.
Sex is easy. Almost anyone can do it. But intimacy and sex? That’s a puzzle I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out. It’s not the anatomical act that’s difficult in any way, but rather, it’s the clouds of feelings that come attached at the hip. I suppose people can have sex without being intimate with one another, but I can’t imagine the sex would be any good—aside from the “getting off” part—because I think what makes sex so spectacular is that it’s something you either get to share with yourself or with another person. It is always love: self-love in the way of self-care, or self-less love, an outpouring from one vessel so that person can pour right back into you.
But sometimes getting there is hard. Sometimes it’s just been a long day, and nobody wants to put in the effort to strip themselves bare, dive in, and be intimate. It would just be easier to ignore the tugging, bury it beneath other things that are probably more important. Sometimes needs are mismatched. Sometimes things come up and shit happens.
Good sex requires both parties to be willing and enthusiastic. Hopefully that should be obvious, but the idea goes beyond just consent. Just like love, good sex takes work, and who wants to work all the time? Certainly not me. It takes work to put yourself out there to the other person, to express desire, to not only take off the clothes you’ve been wearing all day but also to take off the masks you’ve been wearing, the layers we wrap ourselves in to protect from the harsh, unforgiving world, from the people who wouldn’t treat our bodies and hearts with care. Sometimes it is so much easier to keep those walls up, even from someone you’ve been having sex with for years. Sex requires willingness and vulnerability, it is inherently dangerous territory, one where we willingly entangle ourselves with someone else’s mess, someone else’s body. In my
experience, sex will not be good with any holds barred. It requires an opening of the floodgates, a ravenous intimacy and connection that builds mountains, carves rivers and valleys, paints sunsets across the sky and turns our world ‘round. Like the Mars Rover, it requires endless exploration, a dedication to the other person and to yourself. A dedication to continue to love, so that we might finally reach the stars.