Do you think that all the pretty young New York city girls are getting it on? That they are wild and free—the sexual libertines of the Western world? Tear up that check to the missionary fund.
A few nights ago I was at my hang-out bar, Maxie’s Grill, talking to two women about orgasms. “Anne” is 21, and “Beth”, 35. No easy orgasms between the two of them.
Anne: “I have only been with my boyfriend of four years, sexually active for two. I don’t like sex that much and I wouldn’t be disappointed if he said, ‘Let’s go back to being celibate,’ but he won’t because he likes it too much.”
Do you orgasm? I asked.
“I don’t come during intercourse, but I can come in oral sex though I don’t really like it. I don’t like giving blow jobs either.”
Does she masturbate?
She doesn’t masturbate often and has never used a vibe. Beth nodded in understanding.
“I bought my first vibrator when I was 32,” she says. “I went for the full deal, The Rabbit, but I don’t like to put it inside.”
Beth does have orgasms—and a hot black man, 21, interested in giving her some more, but she was fixating on the inappropriateness of the age difference. Please. If I had sex only with men who are age-appropriate (as deemed by society and possibly one’s offspring), I would have had one lover and a very good one-night stand in the past decade. Instead of “Cougar Chronicles”, I would be posting “Memories of Sex Life Past.”
After Anne, Beth and I praised black men for their sexy style—Black men, we love you!—Beth shared her deflowering (at 21) story: Much pain. “I bled for days.” Anne too suffered pain and bleeding. I, on the other hand, tore my hymen climbing a tree at age 10. I didn’t know what that odd piece of protruding thick skin was, but my older sister Ginny explained. When she gently tugged it all the way loose, there was a drop of blood. (In later years, I would tease her I am neurotic because my big sister deflowered me.) The family doctor reassured me that many “modern active young girls” lose their hymens “through normal activities”. No pain, no blood for me when I had first intercourse at 17 with an 18 year old boy who was smart enough to engage in finger play before entry. No trouble with orgasms—which I routinely had making out with boyfriends long before I deemed it time to “become a woman”. (One BF, a football star of few words, loved to dry hump me and exclaim, ‘Oh, wow, I got you hot!’ as I came.)
Sex—Orgasm!—has always been easy for me. Love—that’s another story. Maybe I wouldn’t be an empathetic advisor to orgasm-challenged women If my BFFs hadn’t all commented on my “intimacy issues” at one time or another. I know how it feels to be letting The Girl Team down, but really don’t girls dish out a lot of hokum to each other? I sabotage relationships with men I’m crazy about, but I am a very creative saboteur which keeps the BFFs entertained, deflecting criticism.
I left Maxie’s thinking I probably have the right little vibe for Anne somewhere in a box of freebies. And books! I would take her some books, mine and possibly another—and what was the title of that book which suddenly seemed just right? I went uptown to my cool garden apartment office and excavated to the bottom of a pile of review copies of recent sex books. There it was—in galleys with the pub date, April 14, 2009 stamped on the cover. I am somewhat behind on organizing the office.
Thanks for Coming: One Young Woman’s Quest For An Orgasm (Harper Perennial) by Mara Altman. I started to read with the intention of skimming every tenth page—and I read every word, the whole book straight through. I LOVE THIS BOOK! By turns sweet and tender, touching and girlishly innocent and/or embarrassing as only the disclosure of butt pimples can be—gutsy and hilariously funny—Thanks for Coming has so many good lines that I will be quoting from it periodically. (Mara, I may be late in coming to you, but I will make up for it.) For example, when she realizes how important woman’s orgasm is to men, she says, “It seemed that men were almost hijacking female pleasure to bolster themselves.”
Mara set out to find her orgasm (separated from love, like the guys do it) by consulting the experts, including some of the people I have met and interviewed over the years. Betty Dodson. Eric Amaranth. Barry Komisaruk. Annie Sprinkle. Carole Queen. The One Taste guru! She nails them in wise and wicked vignettes and gives readers an inside peek at what I call Sex World, or the sex information/research establishment. How perfect that she ends by having an orgasm in an fMRI machine to the applause of researchers. (Kudos to you, Mara. They asked me if I wanted to volunteer and I said: “Are you crazy?” The only time I ever faked orgasm in my life—outside marriage—was in one of Betty Dodson’s workshops.)
I put down the book with a sudden insight into why I don’t like men my own age: They are on the opposite quest, the anti-separation quest, the search for love and sex together—and I am still doing it like the young guys do. Have I been missing something?
And what is the root of my issue with feelings and emotions? Why can I only lavish love on babies and children related to me—and cocks I disassociate from their life support systems? I don’t even much like dogs and cats.
Mara, let’s get together for drinks and burgers at Maxie’s, my treat. We need to talk. Already your courage has inspired me. Just last night, I acknowledged to an attractive man, a casual acquaintance, that I owe him an apology for something (and I do). He kissed my forehead. It was a “like” exchange, curiously pleasant. But, to be honest, I also told him how sexy he is. Nobody ever did more for a black t shirt than he was doing last night. And I am a born flirt. Maybe, however, I could be a nicer one?
copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime