Trigger warning: mentions of sexual trauma
Something was unlocked, or I suppose – unblocked – within me late last Saturday night. After 28 years of poor performance (probably on my part too), over-played bedroom techniques learnt from porn (how unoriginal), “you gotta be quiet because my room mates are sleeping”, doggie-style without even a decent makeout session first, rolling over afterwards to text other girls and “oh sorry that was fast..erm.. you’re just so hot” – I am pleased to announce the long, tumultuous battle for good fucking sex has finally been won.
And well, it’s true what they say, foreplay really does start before entering the bedroom.
Last Saturday night’s encounter was the kind of sex that’s so good, the next few days feel like you’re on a comedown from attending a drug-fuelled dance rave, or when you’ve entered a flow state while jogging to an up tempo song… or even that glass of rosé as it hits your lips on a sun soaked Friday afternoon.
Yeah, that kind.
Fuck, I already miss it…
For many years, I lay dormant in this feeling that – maybe – I could be broken when it comes to sex… for most times, when I’m in the act of it, I don’t feel present. Instead, I have moments where I’m seeing myself in bird’s eye view, looking down at my body as a moving object. I later learned this feeling is called dissociating and as a result, my therapist and I have had a field day trying to figure out the root cause of it.. oh how much fun. If only I could make that malaka pay for my therapy sessions.
Yes, there’s been some decent sexy times before, like that tanned Greek God one summer, who owned property on the beach and fucked me slow by the kerosene lamp – okay, so he was old… and was as much of a dick… as his dick. Then there was the rage-hate-sex from the ex I kept returning back to over two years and granted, the sex was shaping out to be pretty decent each time, but also incredibly toxic… as I’m sure you’ll agree. Apart from those moments, there haven’t been many standing ovations or fire emoji’s added beside the names of those who have made it onto the sex spreadsheet (yes, I have the data now, link in bio for a free downloadable guide).
I thought that my lack of enjoyment could be due to the alcohol, the impulsiveness, the rejection, the imminent sign of ghosting, the three pump and done moments – yep, I question my sanity everyday on why I continue to date guys.
But now I understand the why…why I felt so small and miniscule when sleeping with someone, why I felt like I was putting on a performance or owed them something because I’d had my dinner paid for, or Uber booked. The reason why I never felt fully present in any sexual encounters was actually a reflection on the poor communication (or lack thereof) between both parties because being vulnerable in conversation is arguably more difficult than the act of sex itself. Living in limbo land of what if I say something fucking stupid. Just a girl in that uncomfortable state of mind when the foreplay begins before the bedroom, the vulnerability of a chat over a plate of sashimi before you gotta speed up the banquet just to get one inch closer to being naked.
This guy was something else. I mean, he was 100% relationship material for someone who isn’t me. But I guess that even after speaking so little on Hinge the weekend before, and him flying to my city for a date (wtf?!), I found myself entering a comfortable zone as I shared every single detail of my life thus far. Everything from who I have dated, where I’ve travelled to if I want kids, my family life and my sexual traumas and more – and he fucking listened to all of it. Granted, it was hard to talk so much and he isn’t my therapist – but being actually heard was pretty sexy.
So, I decided to go home with him.
I won’t lie. I believe his intent in flying to my city was to have sex with me. However, instead of allowing that to be a negative, I’ve come away from the experience in a completely different light.
Instead, I feel worthy of the flight he took, worthy of sharing a nice meal, worthy of an excitement-filled night where the attention (for the most part) was solely on my pleasure (yes, he went down and stayed there). Was it so wrong that he flew over 1000 kilometres for a moment we both enjoyed?
In the past, I might have hidden in the back seat of my Uber the next morning, suppressed the shame of a one-night stand, or I might have pioneered, doe-eyed, waiting for a text the next day that would indicate I wasn’t getting ghosted and then crawling into a deep depression when that text never arrived.
But instead, I’m chilling the fuck out in anticipation of the next moment like this, knowing just how possible it is now. I’m more excited than sad, more confident than nervous, and more mentally equipped to deal with the consequence than being slouched around with hollowness or having that shitty thought of feeling used.
So here I am, ready for a great year of good sex, men who fly to see me and ultimately, way better communication in 2026.