I’ve been thinking about sex. Recently, a lot. All the time in fact. Because, after a rather pathetically long-um-hiatus from all things coital, I’ve been seduced back into, well, the world of seduction.
One of the reasons the hiatus was so long was largely because I was uncomfortable dealing with my sexuality. I like sex. Always have. Actually let me rephrase that: I luuuurrrvve sex. All things about it. Highly charged. Ready for action. But the combination of a typically South African upbringing, which inferred that good girls can’t be sexy or sexual, and some nice, 21st century body image issues (probably from the same root), meant that it took me a long time to accept who I am.
Hence the hiatus. I went from rampant student to sad nun in the space of a few years. Projecting way too much into casual encounters left me feeling empty and used and with the distinct impression that there was something wrong with me. Which I now know, after a long and exceedingly dry couple of winters and some deep and meaningful soul searching, is complete and utter bollocks.
But this year has been a year of surprises. I seem to be shedding the past. And one of the most pleasant surprises was a slow, sexy seduction. And with all things, the moment something’s on your mind, it appears all over the place. Like when you start seeing someone who drives a Toyota. And all of a sudden there are Toyotas everywhere. Well, that’s a bad example because there are Toyotas everywhere. But you know what I mean.
So, it seems to me, that everywhere there are people, like me, who fantasize and imagine and edge towards the boundaries of what is considered acceptable. Which seems silly to say in our sex-obsessed age. But I’m talking about completely everyday people who blur the line between fantasy and reality. Who not only embrace and express their sexual selves, but do so with passion and abandon and joy.
Like one of my friends, who I met for a drink the other day. He mentioned his penchant for fetishism. We talked-and talked-.and talked-.and he suggested I pop in a quaint little coffee shop he knows for a cuppa and a bit of-um-exploration.
Then another friend suggested we go shopping at a a wonderful little place she knows. She swears by their corsets.
And then today I stumbled across a story about a women who’s been blogging anonymously about her sex life for 2 years, maintaining that anonymity to publish a book. She was recently viciously outed by a Sunday newspaper, which has caused all manner of uproar in the UK, just proving how far we still have to go for women to claim and own their most intimate desires.
An extract reads:
Just because a woman enjoys sex, it seems that she must be seen as pathological in some way; that she must be abnormal, or bad, or as in my case an addict. Why can’t women just like sex? Why can’t we be seen to enjoy it, without being called ‘sluts’ or ‘whores’ or ‘addicts’? Why must something be wrong with us, just because we openly express our needs, desires and wants?
So, my point is, I’m going shopping. I might pop in for that cuppa. I’m feeling just a little bit wicked. And for once that feels good. Toyota drivers: be warned-