Do you know I couldn’t have sex until after college because I hated it so much? That’s when you’re supposed to have sex, Rob – in college!
– Penny, High Fidelity
I’ve had serious depression for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t until the past few years and a kick-arse counsellor that I started to like myself enough to start loving myself, and enjoying sex again. For years orgasms had been out of the question because of the level, and type, of medication in my body; that, and I felt about as sexy as the gloop that collects in the drain of a neglected fridge. A change of medication, therapy, and some very frank conversations with a man who made my knees weak, and my ability to orgasm came back. Sloooooowly. Toys have helped. Quite a lot, it turns out.
I’m angry and fascinated in equal measure by how women’s rights and women’s sexuality are portrayed and dealt with right now. It’s a very weird and strange time to be a woman and feminist. When I got up the nerve to talk to my friends about the problems I’d been having, they were horrified and sympathetic, but not one of them could bring herself to say “orgasm” – because we don’t talk about sex unless we’re drunk or being controversial.
So here I am, picking my way through toys, blogs, and attitudes to sex in the media and wider world. I’m learning what works for me and what doesn’t, and paying close attention to where my mind and body want to take me next.
I write and talk from the perspective that it’s okay to be an amoeba if you need or want to be. I’m full-on pro-choice for sex, from being toy-obsessed and having a mind that happily leaps into the gutter, to banging the drum for not having any interest at all – and knowing well that where we sit on that scale changes, sometimes several times a day.
Apart from the power tools under the bed, it turns out I’m surprisingly normal. Except maybe, for the fact that yes, I do take my toys down to the beach to get photos. So far no dogs or toddlers have decided to get too friendly. It’ll happen one day.
Want to know when that happens? Coordinate your dog-walking so we never / always meet when I’m wielding the camera? Chuck me an email: theshinglebeach [at] yahoo [dot] com