Seeking an Orgasmic Life
THE THING IS
It’s my first day of being ‘legally’ single for fifteen years. I look at myself in the wardrobe mirror.
Hello. Half a smile.
I know enough to know I should be telling myself I look great. I should remember Louise Hay and look into my eyes and say ‘I love you’, but instead I pat my stomach. Too round, too wobbly. I’d put on weight after my first child and never lost it. I touch my hair, lifting it, letting it drop. It’s mousy brown and cut too short for my slightly chubby cheeks. I put my hands either side of my face and pull back and up gently. Now that, that is what I looked like when I got married fifteen years ago.
I look middle-aged. I am actually wearing three items of clothing from Marks and Sparks: my jeans, my vest, my knickers. A chocolate brown top hangs sloppily over navy jeans. These are terrible clothes, I realise.
Slowly, I undress.
I take off my baggy jumper which I wear to hide the fuller figure I never got used to. Underneath I’m wearing a M&S vest ‘with built in support’. The moulded cups don’t exactly fit my breasts, so I appear to have two sets of boobs instead of just the one. I have four of these tops, I wear one every day. I slip off my shoes, a pair of sturdy tan Clarkes that have lasted me ten years, then unbutton my jeans. I wriggle my hips to slide them off and step out of my trousers, socks still on. My calves are the only part of my body that didn’t expand after I had a child; now they look spindly beneath my broad thighs. I pull my vest over my head and drop it on the floor. I look better bare-chested. I don’t actually have two set of breasts, just the one. I cup my breasts in my hands and squeeze.
The thing is, since my husband left, my libido has returned. Not a gentle nudge, a light rekindling of a flame: no. Rather, a voracious tornado, whipping me up into a frenzy of longing. Longing to be kissed, to be teased, to be turned on and touched – very, very slowly. It’s as though all the sexual desire I could have experienced over the last five years has been stored up and now my body has decided it’s safe to let it out…
“I don’t want the kind of sex I have had in the past .”
- Not that it has all been terrible, some of it has been good, but I have an instinctual feeling I’ve missed out on something that should be mine. I want something softer, slower and more tactile. I want someone to take the time to really turn me on before we have actual sex. In fact, I’ve heard about whole body orgasms, and I want some of those, please. Before I die. Life seems incredibly short when you get to the middle. I’m not sure where to begin, but I read something about Tantric sex once; sacred sex where uniting spiritual awareness and sexuality leads to a blissful, orgasmic altered state of consciousness that lasts for hours… apparently. If that is a real thing, I want some. I have a vivid imagination, but since my divorce it’s dawned on me that I’ve never really explored my sexual desires. Are the fantasies that turn me on just that, or do I actually want to try some of them out? Despite my seemingly cosmopolitan outlook, I’ve been a bit of a prude: full of rules and judgements. Thinking about this makes me sad. That’s not good. Sad isn’t a good look when you are trying to find sex.
- I have no idea where to begin. I haven’t even flirted with another man for 15 years, how am I going to get one to even kiss me?
My future seems divided into two distinct options. Option ‘a’ is where I stay safe, don’t express my desires, have no sex, gradually gather cats and become the cat lady of the street. Later, kids will throw stones at my window and I will die alone. Option ‘b’ I put my fears to one side, and somehow, and lordy knows where I begin, I venture back into the territory of carnal knowledge and become brave enough to go looking for what I want. I may well also die alone, but I will have more fun getting there.
It’s a no-brainer, right?
Apart from the fear, of course. Why is sex so frightening? We all do it, right?
I look back at the mirror. Slipping my thumbs into the slightly sagging elastic of my knickers, I pull out, then down. I step out of my pants and fluff up my pubic hair. I actually look better without clothes on. The curves are just fine when you look at them as whole. I run my fingers down from my neck, across my nipples and to my crotch. There’s still time.
I gather my clothes into my arms and go downstairs to the kitchen.
Here, I open the bin and drop the clothes in.
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