Who’s In Control of Your Sex
A few weeks ago I bought a cute new summer outfit. When it arrived I slipped it on and then paused. It’s a romper with the shortest shorts I’ve ever worn. The kind that tug when you reach up, revealing the curve of your ass cheek. I looked in the mirror, bent over a little and thought, “f*ck it, i’m keeping it”. For the first weeks I only wore it in the house. Then a couple of days ago, I realized what I was doing. So I put it on, went to store and had the most fun grocery shopping I’ve had in awhile (believe me, offers of help were abundant).
13 years ago, I arrived at my first erotic class in birkenstocks, a cardigan and baggy khakis. Those were the clothes I felt most comfortable in in the world. For as long as I could remember, I’d hidden my sex with clothes. Baggy clothes, boyish clothes, outdoorsy clothes. From inside of those clothes, I looked at the teachers of the class, with their short skirts and braless tops, and felt uncomfortable. It was the sensation of both wanting to shrink back inside of my skin and break out of it at the same time. Naturally, I judged them. Then judged myself. Then judged them harder. My thinly veiled insecurities were pressed to the surface. I knew these women had access to something I didn’t.
Then just last week I was talking to a friend who is newly in love. She was pissed because her guy had suggested she paint her fingernails red, that they would look beautiful. “I hate that he likes those things”, she said, “I just want to feel comfortable in my body. In 47 years, I’ve never painted my nails, and if I ever did it would be in black!” Because we have an honest friendship I laughed and replied, “You sound about 14 right now!’
The truth is that it was her teenager speaking. The young woman who never wanted to be told what to do and would rebel against anyone who tried, who fortified her sex against any idea of conventional feminine beauty. Just like it was my shy, self-protective teenage self running my wardrobe those years ago. And some younger, fearful remnant who was hesitant to put on a skimpy romper and leave the house last week. I’ve also known 6 year olds to be in charge of sex lives. I’ve seen it countless times with clients. Not literal 6 year olds of course. But young aspects of self that use baby talk and goofy play to dampen any real electricity with a partner.
It’s intense to stand in the full charge of adult sex. It’s rarely “comfortable”. It means knowing your deeper desire. Sitting with the heat of it. Expanding into unfamiliar edges. Standing in the sensation-producing gaze of another’s attention. Most stories I’ve heard of suffocated eroticism come down to that discomfort. And the ways people have (for various reasons) a younger part of themselves holding the reigns of their sex - a younger self that only knows to downplay, dissipate, joke, rebel, or avoid - any compensation to make it more comfortable.
This has me looking around (myself and others) and asking, “who’s in charge here?” In sex, and really any area of life where the voltage of true power is required. And inviting out the adult who can handle the heat of erotic fire… because that’s where the real play begins.
Ps This isn’t about wearing short shorts & getting your nails done red. I think that’s clear.