What You Really Really Want (31 page)

Rachel, age twenty, learned about diving in too fast when she tried out a fantasy of hers: sex while high. “I had heard it increased sensation and was generally fun, so I brought it up with my girlfriend,” she remembers.

It's also important to consider
whose
fantasies you're bringing to life. This question goes all the way back to chapters 1 and 3, in which you considered the many influences that have shaped how you think about sexuality and started to adjust them so that they sounded more like you and less like other people's agendas for you. Hopefully you've got that balance much closer to where you want it to be by now, but when it comes to fantasy, it's good to check in. Because the virgin/slut dichotomy is so ingrained in our culture, women with whom the “innocent” label doesn't resonate may believe that the only other valid option for expressing their sexuality is to be as “wild,” sexually speaking, as possible. As I've said before, there's nothing wrong with being sexually wild, as long as you're doing it on your own terms and taking on only the risks you're comfortable with. You don't have to be “up for anything” in order to be loved, or to find a satisfying sex partner. Your satisfaction depends on your developing a specific, authentic sexual identity and finding partners that want you where you are, as opposed to expecting you to fit some kind of porn-fueled fantasy of what a sexual woman should be like. Yet another reason to take it one step at a time when exploring fantasies—you may find out along the way that they don't belong to you in the first place.

You may also find that some fantasies feel great when you're enacting them, but not so good afterward. It's hard to know when or why this will happen. For some, playing with fantasy dynamics that would be toxic if they were “real” can be liberating and satisfying, and for others, these same play dynamics (say, having your lover say humiliating things to you)
may feel hot at the time but can wind up reinforcing the damaging beliefs you have about yourself that you're trying to shed. If you find this to be true, it's important to include that in your risk assessment when considering whether and how to play with that dynamic again.

Do you ever struggle with sharing information with your partner in terms of your sex life? Maybe it's admitting to a fantasy. Or telling them you have an STD. Maybe it's disclosing a trauma history, or your insecurity about being less experienced than your partner expects, or
more
experienced. Perhaps you're a sex worker, or used to be one. Maybe you're transgender. Maybe you have a mental or physical situation that's not readily apparent but will affect the way you have sex. Maybe it's something else entirely.

If this is the case, and you worry that your partner will respond poorly to your disclosure, these questions can be useful and clarifying:

Sound familiar? You're basically doing a risk analysis, just as you would for any other risky situation. And don't forget what you already know about risk: Every sexual scenario carries some. The question is, which risks seem like the right ones for you? And how can you minimize them?

In a practical sense, I encourage you to be honest with your partner when it seems possible. Lying is usually wrong, and hiding things can be exhausting. Disclosure gives you the opportunity to learn things about your partner. Do you want to be with someone who responds badly when you've shared something personal and important? On the other hand, if
your partner responds well, it can build trust and intimacy between you, which can make sex better and strengthen your connection—whether it's a long-term affair or a fleeting hookup.

How and when to disclose depends on how urgent and risky the matter is. Unfortunately, those two often go hand in hand. One thing I've had to disclose for a long time is that I'm a survivor of sexual assault. At first, when I was just starting to have sex again after the assault, it was extremely important to me to tell partners about it before we did anything sexual. I felt fragile and volatile; I wanted to start reclaiming my body and sexuality, but I never knew when some small moment or gesture would trigger trauma memories. But at the same time, it was terrifying to tell partners so soon, because how they reacted mattered a lot to me. Today, eighteen years later, it's both less risky and less urgent for me to share.

For some of us, the obstacles to satisfying sex are more physical. Some people experience mild to intense pain when anything is inserted into their vagina. If you've tried vaginal penetration more than once and it just consistently hurts, you may be suffering from one of several very real medical conditions, including vulvodynia or vaginismus. If you suspect this might be the case for you, the first thing you should remember is that vaginal penetration isn't the only way to have sex! Experiment with other ways to please yourself and your lover. In the meantime, seek out medical help, because there are treatments available that can reduce or eliminate your pain. You may have to be persistent—not all doctors are familiar with these conditions or know how to treat them. For a listing of doctors that women have found helpful, as well as other resources, information, and support, I encourage you to check out
www.wyrrw.com/vulvodynia
or the book
Healing Sexual Pain,
by Deborah Coady, MD, and Nancy Fish, MPH.

The other common cause of unwanted physical pain during sex is anal sex. If you're the “enveloping” or “receiving” partner during anal sex and it hurts, one of several things may be amiss:

If you want to learn more about how to have pleasurable and painless anal sex, check out Tristan Taormino's
The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women.

If someone violates your sexual boundaries, it can feel unspeakably awful. It can also be incredibly confusing if it's someone you trusted enough to have been voluntarily intimate with them. There are entire books about how to recover from sexual violence, including Ellen Bass's
The Courage to Heal
and Staci Haines's
Healing Sex,
but I want to mention a few things here:

 

It's not your fault.
Not if you were wearing something sexy, or were drunk, or were walking alone by yourself at night. Not if you were flirting with someone, or making out with them, or naked, or fooling around. Nothing you do can ever make sexual violence your fault. If someone ignores your protests, or even doesn't care enough to notice that you've stopped enjoying or participating in whatever is happening, it's their fault. Always.

 

Tell someone.
Seriously. Long before you were assaulted, you were taught that girls and women who get assaulted should feel shame. And that shame may discourage you from telling anyone what happened. But you have done nothing to be ashamed of. The person who violated your body should be ashamed, not you. Don't let that misplaced shame keep you from getting the support you need or the justice you deserve.