I SODDING WELL HATE SEX. There.
A month back K said to me, 'I've never known anyone to take so little pleasure in pleasure.' Meaning, I wasn't up for sex.
This is entirely true. But not a short-fall on his behalf.
I can count the partners I've been with on one hand.
I can also say with perfect certainty that whilst they came 97% of the time, my sexual experience was a little different. I've come during sex less times than I have fingers. I don't know what it's like for the boys. But for me, roughly 1/3 = okay, 1/4 = vaguely ow that wasn't really fun, 1/10 = ow that actually bloody hurt and 1/15 = that was totally rocking.
This is why I don't encourage anyone I'm with in any way. I don't stroke or poke or fondle. 'Cos if I do, they'll get frisky. And when they get frisky, my odds of enjoying the outcome really aren't anywhere as good as theirs. This isn't their fault - this is just how it is.
Funny thing: sex has always been part of the downfall of my relationships. Generally because I wasn't as interested and this was an issue. Always has been. They thought I either didn't fancy them or else was interested in someone else. (Because what possible reason could I have otherwise for not shagging them silly?!)
Yet... it's interesting how I bitch so much about female biology and how I actually wish it was different - being in heat - wanting lots of sex.... That's not because I have sore innards. That's because I wish there was a biological switch that made me crave sex. My life would be a lot simpler. Or at least I wouldn't be looking at a disappointed partner so much. Who knew, even more of an issue when it's your husband who's upset and disappointed...
I should have stated up front that I'm rubbish at sex.
But there's always the hope, isn't there?
I haven't been with many people.
Maybe they just weren't quite my type, maybe they - or maybe there was something....
But no. You're right. It's always been true. I don't like sex that much. What a stupid 'repressed' 'british' thing is that? Very. But there it is.
PS: I don't know how much of last night you remember, but you ignored me for half an hour then for some reason told me that I was a liar for ever having said I tried to kill myself, after that you went a bit weird and tried to get me to admit to mystical-magical-wtf things I didn't understand. I asked you to explain, you refused, going so far as to say that if I didn't 'get it' then you'd have nothing more to do with me 'cos I was obviously rubbish - how had you missed that fact before? At about that point I told you very loudly to sod off and then you retreated again to duvet-land.
I sat up, cried quiet a lot, typed this, and listened to you pretend to be asleep.
I still do not understand exactly who you were pissed at after my totally non earth-shattering revelation of 'sex isn't that great for me'. Nor what any of the shouting that came after it meant especially since you refused to explain it to me and swore I ought to know again and again.
I didn't. I don't. I wish I fucking did.
Although now I'm very tired and a bit pissed off but mostly just feeling like I got kicked in the nads, so if I'm being honest I have no bloody clue whether I should try to start this conversation again or let it lie in a shallow grave.
I said it was easy for you - you could go home. You hated that statement and me for saying it. But it is true. You can go home. If I don't please you, if you have any doubts, you can go back. Farm, hash, goats, chittens.
And here's the thing I don't get.
You spent at least fifteen minutes really rather in my face, trying to pick apart my past. You questioned everything within reach. You were very confrontational and pretty hardcore... Until I snapped and said you could go home. Then you crumbled.
So my question now, as then, is WTF?
This is entirely true. But not a short-fall on his behalf.
I can count the partners I've been with on one hand.
I can also say with perfect certainty that whilst they came 97% of the time, my sexual experience was a little different. I've come during sex less times than I have fingers. I don't know what it's like for the boys. But for me, roughly 1/3 = okay, 1/4 = vaguely ow that wasn't really fun, 1/10 = ow that actually bloody hurt and 1/15 = that was totally rocking.
This is why I don't encourage anyone I'm with in any way. I don't stroke or poke or fondle. 'Cos if I do, they'll get frisky. And when they get frisky, my odds of enjoying the outcome really aren't anywhere as good as theirs. This isn't their fault - this is just how it is.
Funny thing: sex has always been part of the downfall of my relationships. Generally because I wasn't as interested and this was an issue. Always has been. They thought I either didn't fancy them or else was interested in someone else. (Because what possible reason could I have otherwise for not shagging them silly?!)
Yet... it's interesting how I bitch so much about female biology and how I actually wish it was different - being in heat - wanting lots of sex.... That's not because I have sore innards. That's because I wish there was a biological switch that made me crave sex. My life would be a lot simpler. Or at least I wouldn't be looking at a disappointed partner so much. Who knew, even more of an issue when it's your husband who's upset and disappointed...
I should have stated up front that I'm rubbish at sex.
But there's always the hope, isn't there?
I haven't been with many people.
Maybe they just weren't quite my type, maybe they - or maybe there was something....
But no. You're right. It's always been true. I don't like sex that much. What a stupid 'repressed' 'british' thing is that? Very. But there it is.
PS: I don't know how much of last night you remember, but you ignored me for half an hour then for some reason told me that I was a liar for ever having said I tried to kill myself, after that you went a bit weird and tried to get me to admit to mystical-magical-wtf things I didn't understand. I asked you to explain, you refused, going so far as to say that if I didn't 'get it' then you'd have nothing more to do with me 'cos I was obviously rubbish - how had you missed that fact before? At about that point I told you very loudly to sod off and then you retreated again to duvet-land.
I sat up, cried quiet a lot, typed this, and listened to you pretend to be asleep.
I still do not understand exactly who you were pissed at after my totally non earth-shattering revelation of 'sex isn't that great for me'. Nor what any of the shouting that came after it meant especially since you refused to explain it to me and swore I ought to know again and again.
I didn't. I don't. I wish I fucking did.
Although now I'm very tired and a bit pissed off but mostly just feeling like I got kicked in the nads, so if I'm being honest I have no bloody clue whether I should try to start this conversation again or let it lie in a shallow grave.
I said it was easy for you - you could go home. You hated that statement and me for saying it. But it is true. You can go home. If I don't please you, if you have any doubts, you can go back. Farm, hash, goats, chittens.
And here's the thing I don't get.
You spent at least fifteen minutes really rather in my face, trying to pick apart my past. You questioned everything within reach. You were very confrontational and pretty hardcore... Until I snapped and said you could go home. Then you crumbled.
So my question now, as then, is WTF?