(This is probably the most explicit post I've made. For me, in my clinical dissections, that's probably not saying much. But consider this a disclaimer of "personal sexual content ahead" nonetheless.)
This post confounds and inspires me. On the one hand, it speaks about an experience, one of life, intimacy, beauty, and intensity, that I think sounds as close to divine as a secular person can get it. Admittedly, she's writing artistically and there may be some degree of hyperbole. But I think it's safe to say that she enjoys the experience immensely.
On the other hand (so to speak), I'm afraid that, to this point, I can't say I feel the same. My sexuality has always been a thing mired in uncertainty and guilt. Part of that I attribute to my parents' defunct relationship. For as long as I can remember, my mother slept on our living room couch and my father slept in his room. There was always tension when he tried to be affectionate with her, like it was a childish thing, done on a whim. There was no passion, no authenticity to it.
Of course, there's also my early and rapid development of a superstrength superego. I've hidden, repressed, and pretended for as long as I can remember. That's one thing you do when your father has anger issues and an alcohol problem; you walk on eggshells, because you never know what incites wrath and what is rain on a slick roof. It's what you do when you're six and you tell your father you love him, only to have him respond "no you don't." As if six year olds can understand low selfesteem. You guard and you hide and you fear.
So sex wasn't really on my radar for quite some time. Liberal as my parents were (and I'd known about the mechanics since I was 3, given my mother's "always honest" policy), I developed the habits and demeanor of an individual quite conservative. (there was also an incident when I was in kindergarten where I kissed someone or they kissed me and it may have been a boy or it may have been a girl but all I know is I was reported to the head of lunch who put me at the bad kid's table and I was mortified and I was shocked and the teacher talked to us and told us that's something people do at home in private and so it was). It's small wonder, then, that I balked at talking about it.
I went through puberty and hated it. I don't know when I started getting anorexic (for all intents and purposes). I think it was around seventh or eighth grade, when I started reading through lunch instead of eating. But I wanted a smaller body. I wanted to be small. I definitely wanted to not be my father, who is lumbering and large and intimidating. And I also didn't want to be like other boys. I don't remember the specifics, but I do remember that I never had a qualm about defying gendered expectations. Hell, I took pride in my weight. I weighed around 105lbs and was 5'10 (my current height, twenty-twenty pounds less). I hated myself and my body; that was my way of expressing it. Denying myself food, suffering through the hunger, punishing myself for not being enough, not being right.
I had a minor crush in seventh grade. It was, naturally, the smartest girl in the class. She moved away.
I didn't have a real crush until junior year of high school, my "awakening." And then it was agonizing. But that's been covered.
I don't know when I started looking at pictures of naked people. I know it wasn't until I found porn on the computer my father uses. He didn't know how to erase his cookies, and when I found out I was disgusted and shocked. (I'm going to estimate I was 14, but I can conceive of it being older; I remember hiding my eyes during sex scenes well into middle school, finding films like American Pie repulsive on principle, etc.). The idea stuck, though. I started looking at drawn pictures, eventually. Certainly not "genuine" pornography. I won't go into the details of the content for the moment, but suffice it to say it was not "standard fare." I also did not masturbate; I think I honestly didn't know how or have much interest in doing so.
This lack of conscious sexual expression produced nocturnal emissions, which are grizzly, confusing things (especially when you have no idea what they are, which I didn't for years). It was very disconcerting for me, and it took me quite awhile to get brave enough to figure out what the hell was going on. Mind you, this was when I was 15, 16, 17. The specifics elude me, but I was well on my way through puberty. Hell, plenty of people had been having sex for quite some time by that point, and I had yet to consciously ejaculate.
Suffice it to say, it was not until I was a month away from my 19th birthday, after immense struggle and determination (it was practically painful and terribly frustrating), I finally succeeded in manually inducing ejaculation. That's quite some time, especially for a male in our culture.
Since then, the impetus for comparable endeavors has largely been pragmatic. It is not something I relish; it's a kind of cleansing, a washing away of furtive desire. And there's undoubtedly some shame there. There's some selfconscious, superego-driven dullings. But even as I explored sexuality more, with others, it was very, very rarely something I'd dub "pleasurable."
Of course, I loved/love giving oral sex. I'd always wanted to, looked forward to it, etc. It was the first thing I wanted to try when the opportunity presented itself. And I still love it.
There's a lot to that, of course. It's vicarious pleasure, me enjoying their joy. It's a self-esteem boost since I feel like I'm actually doing something for someone else that they'll like me for. It's fun and exotic and in some ways I like the challenge/reward. And god, I'd do it casually, no-strings attached, etc. I genuinely enjoy it.
The rest of sex, though, has not lived up to its reputation. Anything that my two partners have tried has largely been rather uncomfortable. I don't like it. They blame themselves. I tell them it's not them, but my arousal is evident (all dressed up with no place to go) and they can't help but think otherwise. And although I have had very, very limited experience with vaginal intercourse, I was much more excited by the potential it might have in the future than the actual experience.
Which brings me back to the link above. I wanted to have sex again, certainly. But I was decidedly underwhelmed. The emotional aspects of it were great, of course. But for a person who does not have the shame, the guilt, the lack of desire, the lack of love, the lack of safety, so much in their favor... it makes you wonder.
I read a quotation on one of the forums I've been on (and it's that sort of community that I've come across blogs like the one above) that said that if you don't enjoy sex, you're not doing it right. Granted, I have limited experience, and getting in a position (so to speak) to remedy that situation is difficult and unlikely, at the moment. My opinions are relatively uninformed about the ways others experience their sexuality (hence the reading material), and much of them are based upon popular culture (for instance, I'm pretty sure American Beauty had a lot to do with me even knowing what masturbation was about and how others engaged in it). And, indeed, the
post that linked me to Diel's post expounds a bit upon the exceptionality of Diel's first experience.
So, yeah, there's a lot to question there. But I assure you, I can think of only one, definitive time where I have orgasmed without having to imagine my partner (real or imaginary) screaming in pleasure or I've involved myself in twisted, self-hating identification in scenarios that will not likely be discussed for some time (I wouldn't suggest using your imagination; I'll tell you if you ask). My sexuality is part of my repression, part of my self-loathing. It's never been healthy or "pure." And it's also, essentially, not been a thing of authentic joy or self-pleasure.
"If it's not fun, you're not doing it right." I've been doing a lot of things wrong for a very long time. There's something to be said for experimentation and trying all kinds of different things. But there's also the case where you keep getting results that keep pushing you in certain directions, as uncomfortable as those may be. Eventually, it's hard to deny. Empiricism's a bitch.