If you were to ask me how many times a day I thought about sex, I wouldn’t have a concrete answer for you. Whether it is deemed normal or appropriate no longer bothers me. It’s about what makes me happy, and if I’m being perfectly honest, sex makes me insanely happy. It could be the thrill of the chase, the challenge of riding the waves until the surrender of an orgasm, or the orgasm itself, but sex is an amazing, intimate endeavor that I am in love with and I am not ashamed to admit it.
I’ve always known I had a burning fascination with sex, beginning at the tender age of six. I would draw pictures of what I wanted my naked body to look like and send it to the boy who was the object of my affection. I saw a penis for the first time around that time. My childhood friend Hiram and I were being babysat by a woman infatuated with soap operas. One afternoon while she slept in front of her TV set in the lounge, we disappeared into a spare bedroom and tried to replicate what we saw so many times before on the TV screen.
We took off our clothes and just sort of stared at each other. “Where was the rest of mine?” I wondered foolishly as I looked at myself in comparison to what was his. We were children, but it fascinates me now as an adult that we could have such curiosities back then. Or maybe it was just me and my faulty wiring. I wouldn’t lose my virginity until I was 17, but I found healthy ways to fulfill my inner desires in the meantime, whether it be a pillow or vibrator. I learned my best lessons through pornography, finessed them with the lovemaking I experienced with my first, and have harnessed my power from soul to soul since becoming liberated from that relationship. I’ve always had a thirst. And I’ve learned to never deny it.
It never really stuck out to me just how different that made me until I was older and single. I identified the fine line where my sexuality and ravenous appetite would be marveled as a thing of beauty, and where it would have me ridiculed or the object of intimidation to a man because “if I was like this” for him, “I was like this for everybody.” Those men who fell victim to their insecurities fail to realize that just because I am a sexual person does not mean that I can’t be monogamous, that I can’t know intimacy, that I can’t know loyalty, or that recklessness is my middle name – but it begged questions of where I was when I didn’t answer phone calls at night because the men I allowed into my body knew how much I craved that feeling of being filled always. “She’s gotta have it, so she can’t just be fucking with me.”
Your insecurity has nothing to do with me.
It never ceases to amaze me, even now, how something as beautiful as a woman being confident in herself, in her body, in the power of her sex could be twisted into something dark, something shameful, something dirty. For a long time, I was blinded to its beauty because of that. I felt like I had to answer to society before I answered to myself and allowed parts of me to be hidden because I was afraid of what would happen if I let that truth out.
My insecurity had nothing to do with you.
I allowed myself to feel like there was something wrong with me to just want sex from a man. Did I not deem myself worthy of deserving more? Did I think so lowly of myself to feel like I should be just a body and no heart or soul? I was looking at myself through society’s lens and not speaking to myself enough. Why look at myself from a lens of lacking when I know exactly who I am and what I want? My insecurity had nothing to do with them. It had to do with what I was always guilty of doing, allowing others to shape how I felt about me. The amount of malice that laced my ex’s words when he told me I was “sex-crazed” during a heated argument, the accusations, and assumptions—those things were dictating how I felt about myself and turning something beautiful into something ugly.
To me, there is beauty in the essence of that possession. There is an unfair assumption that just because you find joy in sex without the title of “long-term relationship” or “boyfriend/girlfriend” that you have a low value on yourself, but I view it as the exact opposite. I think you know what you want. I think you put yourself and your orgasm first, and what’s more beautiful than that? I’ve learned that women will either love you or hate you for that, and that men will love you and hate you for those reasons, too. But I’m tired of people telling me what a woman should be. Who, what, and how I should be. Define yourself for yourself. Do what you want to do. And in that same breath, do whomever it is you want to do.
If I want sex, I will look through the contacts in my phone and pick the guy I want and send him a text inviting him to share a space with me because I want it. I love my thirst for it, I love my hunger. I love the way certain words act as triggers and send a chill down my spine and make the walls of my core spasm out of sheer anticipation. I love how aroused I get from kisses on the back of my neck. I love the way being entered feels like home to me. Feels like arrival. I love that once our bodies have finished meeting, I am up for another round immediately after. I love how often my mind wanders to it day in and day out. I love the “it’s yours” that spills from his lips when I’ve found the right spot.
I’m me. I’m straightforward and blunt.
I love owning the aspects of me that make me full and complete. And if that isn’t a thing of beauty, I don’t know what is.