Seeking an Orgasmic Life

Chapter 2



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…

But –

“I don’t want the kind of sex I have had in the past .”

  1. 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.
  2. 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?
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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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