Aftershock (12 page)

I used to be really sexual, then I lost my job and put on loads of weight. Now I can’t stand to be touched. I keep pushing my boyfriend away, but I don’t want to lose him either. How do I get my confidence back?

Losing your job has knocked you, but take a deep breath and hear this—fundamentally, you are who you’ve always been. Try to remember why other people love you. If you can’t find a way to do that, find a therapist to help. Overeating, loss of libido and low self-esteem could be symptoms of depression, so speak to your GP. Your confidence and libido are right where you left them—I promise.

I love my boyfriend, but sex is a massive problem; we hardly ever do it and when we do I never climax and he hardly ever does. I want to talk dirty and use sex toys, but he says they put him off. If I try to guide him, he calls me bossy. I’m at a loss!

Our sex lives reflect our relationship as a whole. When women feel their needs aren’t being met (sexually or otherwise), we grow resentful. When men feel nagged or criticised,
they
grow resentful and nothing chokes the life out of a relationship faster. If you want things to change, do things differently. You know what you
don’t
want, so spend some time discovering what each of you
does
want and
does
like and hope for.

My boyfriend’s really good with his fingers and tongue, but he can’t give me an orgasm. I’m comfortable with him, so it’s not that. I come easily through masturbation and I can even have one in front him, so why can’t he do it for me?

A woman’s orgasm is short-circuited by one of two things—a lack of skills on her lover’s part or a lack of trust on hers. He can’t
give
you an orgasm; he can only facilitate your
having
one. If your boyfriend is as skilled as you say, then the only question is, ‘What’s stopping you?’ Do you give up before he does? Get impatient? Worry you’re taking too long? Trust means letting go of these things and maybe that’s hard for you. Some people find it almost impossible to hand over the reins to
anyone
, because not being in control leaves them feeling vulnerable or anxious. The answer is to stay with it. Let go—and LET HIM TRY.

Help—my orgasms used to be so intense I felt like passing out, but now they’re weak and pathetic. I use a Rabbit (or a power shower) and they’ve never let me down before …

It’s unlikely to be physiological, but see your GP to be sure your hormones are healthy. As you don’t mention a partner, I assume it’s down to you to keep your sexual interests perky. Not easy. Alcohol, meds, stress and fatigue all sap the desire, as do masturbating through boredom, doing it too often and sticking with the same toys and fantasies. Research new erotic material, treat yourself to a new device, then tease and linger. Effort = reward.

Write to: RACHEL MORRIS, Cosmopolitan, 72 Broadwick Street, London W1F 9EP, or e-mail [email protected]

If you could hit rewind on your sex life, what would you go back and change? Six writers reveal what they wish they’d known from the start

‘I wish … I’d known it’s OK to masturbate,’ says writer and blogger Zoe Margolis

When I turned twenty, I was a bit unsure of my sexual self. I was aware that I was bisexual, but didn’t know how to express it. I also had a keen interest in sex, but felt embarrassed about it. I’d love to revisit that time in my life and explore my body a bit more, because I know my lack of confidence came from not knowing myself and what did and didn’t work for me.

Sex with my first-ever boyfriend was disappointing because of that. We’d go in search of my clitoris many times and, while I would occasionally shout, ‘Yes! Yes! That’s it!’, when he came up for air, if he asked, ‘Sorry, where was that again?’, I didn’t know what to say.

We just couldn’t find the right spot and, given that I didn’t know how to bring myself to orgasm at that point, how could I expect him to?

If I’d known that there’s no shame in masturbation and nothing wrong with using my hands or a toy, porn or my imagination, I would’ve learnt earlier that pleasure is a positive thing. Asking for what you know you enjoy, rather than
hoping
for it, is empowering.

So I wish I’d become familiar with what felt nice and why and I wish I’d felt more comfortable about satisfying myself. My self-discovery improved not just the pleasure I had on my own, but my enjoyment of sex with others. It was only later in life I realised that these things are inextricably connected.

Zoe wrote the smash-hit blog and bestselling book Girl With A One-Track Mind, writing as ‘Abby Lee’

Despite growing up in the 80s and 90s, when the girl group TLC pinned condoms to their dungarees and Judith Hann fiddled with Femidoms on
Tomorrow’s World
, the whole experience of buying them makes me go wibbly. It’s complicated and embarrassing, like ventriloquism.

You know when you’re buying mascara and you can’t tell the difference between lengthening, plumping and separating, and you go a bit cross-eyed and start gibbering in Superdrug? It’s basically that feeling, but with sex and shame thrown in.

So, despite spending my twenties as a healthy, uh, liberated, er … What’s the polite way to put this? Despite having been round the block more times than an ice-cream van, I’d (shamefully) always left that side of things to the gentleman. That is, until one fateful night. It was a second date, he was coming to mine and I knew I should stock up. Confronted with lubricated tips and Fetherlites and stimulating nodules, I panicked and grabbed the nearest red box. In my naivety, I thought red meant plain. You know, like crisps.

Turns out I’d picked up something called Tinglers. Ever experienced someone squeezing a whole tube of toothpaste inside you? That’s what this felt like. Meanwhile, he looked like he’d smeared himself in Deep Heat and made a sound like a dog eating a hot chip. I explained the whole ‘red/plain crisps’ rationale and, luckily, he laughed.

Reader, I married him—two years later. Okay, so there are less traumatising ways of accelerating a relationship, like tattooing his face on yours. But it could’ve been worse: we could have had no condoms at all. I know we’re all marvellously liberated now and buy condoms with our cornflakes, but it can still feel a bit awkward to make that move yourself. But don’t be shy; don’t leave it up to him. And just remember that blue usually means ultra-thin.
Not
salt and vinegar.

Sarah is a writer for TV and radio sketches, sitcoms and comedy dramas

1. Know thyself. I’m glad I didn’t have loads of sex in my twenties—I wasn’t ready for it. Things change; keep tabs on what makes you happy.

2. Don’t devote too much time to sex: all lovers come and go. Women pride themselves on ‘making things work,’ but sometimes relationships should be allowed to die.

3. Sex just gets better—and better and better. If you’re already having a blast in the bedroom, then
yee-hah!
If things are a tad more ‘meh,’ have patience, my friend. Legions of women take a while to get into their sexual stride—but once they do, there’s no stopping them …

4. Beware of oxytocin, the post-coital bonding hormone. Great sex and great love are different things.

5. These days there’s a good deal of performance pressure arising from the ubiquity of porn. This may be up your street or it may not. Consult Makelovenotporn.com for some food for thought.

6. Regarding penises: enormous ones may require sturdier condoms, advanced pelvic-floor skills and telling him to calm the f**k down (not that chaps tend to mind a woman gasping, ‘It’s just SO HUGE.’)

7. Cystitis is the bane of many a twenty-something existence. Try not to be too drunk and dehydrated when you do it. If that’s too tricky, take super-high-dose cranberry pills before, after, next morning and next day. Wash after sex and insist he is hygienic. Persuade your GP that you can be trusted with your own stock of antibiotics.

8. Most importantly, ENJOY.

I used to believe that every detail of my body needed to be perfect if I was going to hook up with someone. I thought my legs and underarms had to be freshly shaved, my skin devoid of spots, my body in the greatest physical shape of my life. Never did I ask myself if I had the same high standards for my potential partner, although I most certainly didn’t.

Eventually I came to see the ridiculousness of this. Imagine getting the keys to a Ferrari, but refusing to drive it because there’s a bit of dirt on the bumper. Or worse, driving the Ferrari and failing to enjoy it because you’re so worried about imperfections that have nothing at all to do with the ride. Sex is about pleasure, not about scrutinising flaws.

Any mental energy you spend on being self-conscious is brainpower that could be going towards building up to an amazing orgasm. It actually wasn’t until I specifically told myself that the goal of sex was reaching bliss that I realised something scary: my previous goal—the goal that had me checking myself repeatedly in the mirror and putting clothes back on the moment we were done—wasn’t about having fun. It was about seeking acceptance through the physical approval of another person.

Acknowledging my own worth and beauty instead of relying on others to make me feel attractive finally freed me up in the bedroom. Suddenly, I wasn’t waiting for my partners to inspect my body, or worrying what the results would be if they did—I’d already passed my own inspection with flying colours.

Tampa tells the story of a teacher seducing a schoolboy.

Since my first kiss at the ripe old age of eighteen, I’ve learnt a lot. After my first boyfriend pursued my virginity, then refused to bunk off work to bask in the afterglow, I realised that sex doesn’t always have the same emotional impact on men that it does on women.

My second boyfriend only wanted sex once a month. Three years on, I realised that, no matter how much you love him, without a satisfying sex life you’re basically just good friends. To convince myself I was still desirable, I tried a few flings and learnt they’re not for everybody, and that a man wanting to sleep with you and feeling wanted are very different things. And that arriving home on Christmas morning wearing a bedraggled Sexy Mrs Claus outfit will get you in
big
trouble with your mum.

There followed eight blissful years with a man who showed me that even if boxes on your ‘tall, dark and handsome’ wishlist go unticked, being laughed into bed is the most fun ever. That was swiftly followed by a relationship that was the exact opposite, proving even the most passionate sex means nothing if a man can’t make you laugh.

With seventeen years’ sexual experience and six working for Cosmo, you’d think I’d know it all. But I’m still learning (most recent lesson: mainlining cheese is a great distraction during a year-long sex drought).

So what I wish I’d always known is this: no matter how much you think you know about sex, there’s always plenty more to discover.

Firstly, I wish I’d known sex wouldn’t be like it’s depicted in
Dirty Dancing.
The real thing involves more bodily fluid and laughing than in movies. I also wish I hadn’t been in such a rush to pop my Cherry (sorry, couldn’t resist …).

I had a very near miss with a boy under a boat when I was fifteen, after too much Malibu, then a more favourable experience with a long-term (ie, more than a week) boyfriend at sixteen. He was lovely and it was very sweet—but still painful and definitely not ‘sexy.’

No matter how many saucy books, magazines or videos you steal from your elder brother, there’s no fast track to earth-shattering sexytime. Like anything, it’s a skill that needs both practice and a willingness to learn.

I do wish I’d asked myself, ‘What do I like?’ a little more, rather than thinking, ‘I hope he liked that …’

It took a long time (about ten years!) to work up the courage to suggest stuff in the bedroom. What I now know is that when you’re assertive, everyone wins.

And while the fantasy of bonking Patrick Swayze in a sweaty hut is great, real sex often requires tissues and a sense of humour, neither of which often features in film and TV simulations.

I’d tell my fifteen-year-old self to lay off the Malibu, expect to learn the moves gradually, and embrace the real version of sex—
not
waste time wondering if I was a bit rubbish.

What do you wish you’d always known about sex?
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