Sex Stories: The Things We Don’t Talk About by Caitríona Murphy
“Lie with who you want. This is what is expected of women my age”
"Sex Stories" is a regular NAILED column in which all kinds of people write about sex.
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The bed looks harmless. Creased sheets and the lingering scent of pheromones the only hint that a body other than mine shared those soft depths last night. The frigid air in the room is prompting me to cover up, but I can’t get my feet to work. Frigid. The word floats around my head. A word to describe the bitter cold. It’s always struck me as unfair that it can be applied to a woman. An insult. Any woman who cannot or will not lose herself in rapturous sensual pleasure must be damaged in some way, must be tainted and painted with ugly words, a sneer amongst her peers and an adjective that compares her to an iceberg. Of course, too much the other way and there is a whole legion of words for those women, even uglier than “frigid.”
The burning tip of my cigarette glows and I replay scenes in my head. His hands and the smell of him wanting me. My giggle at first and then wine spilling everywhere. A ruby dam burst on the carpet. Expectation and nerves colouring my cheeks more than he would. More than he could. The events that had taken place twelve hours before had been speculated upon so many times with my friends, a giggly prelude about what I could expect from him, what way it would happen. We never acknowledged the fear. We all knew the other felt it, but it was a taboo subject; in our world of easy conversations about lingerie and protection, to acknowledge one’s fear was pushing a boundary that was just too great. Not of possible pain or our own disappointment; but rather, the fear we might fail him as a woman. That he would be left wanting. Were we advanced enough without being cheap? Warm and giving, without the sour punch of neediness? Would he feel completely satisfied by all that we would strive to give him, yet be aware that he could walk away from us at any moment, no pressure?
One hour later. The hot needles of the shower have washed away day old makeup and the biological traces that marked me as his. My body is sore and stiff. Not in a bad way, just a lingering reminder that I have been claimed. I think it’s that fleeting feeling, emotional and otherwise, that keeps me going; the feeling that I have been claimed, wanted, needed, for however brief, by someone. I am doing something right. Because no matter how quickly he will leave my bed, or later on, if he pretends he never got my texts, in those few moments, I am so important to him. He needs me. My mirror reflects the bruise just coming up on the inside of my lip. Isn’t this what it’s like to be a modern woman, having it all? Lie with who you want. This is what is expected of women my age. This is what we do. I have read all of the articles, armed myself with the right look and right attitude. The magazines have dedicated so many pages to where and how to touch a man to give him maximum pleasure. I once read a bland “How To” guide, heavy with exclamation marks and italics, that included a map. To disappoint a man in bed would surely be the worst thing to happen to a modern woman. There is such a wealth of “how-to” guides that we have no excuse not to be a vessel of maximum pleasure for him.
It is not a reflection of him that my body could not respond to his, rather a sad reflection on my own failings. Not that he was aware. His mouth swallowed the lies that slipped from my lips even as my body remained remote, proof that I am lacking.
The steady beat of the rain makes it easy to ignore my ringtone.
Memories that I don’t want to acknowledge and rarely remember are battling for superiority in my dehydrated brain. You don’t really expect the first time to be good. In fact, it’s almost like a group joke, a girly giggle, some joint badge of honour you must earn before you can join the club…sitting around over some fruity drink while we compare horror stories of the first time and try to out-do each other. Ugly pictures of that first time are sneaking in. Flashes of his face, the disappointment hurting more than the physical discomfort. Grunts and suppressed tears. The emotional and physical mess that’s about as far removed from desire and erotica as you can possibly get. Nothing to laugh about at all, really.
Hope is a dangerous thing. I was so sure that good things were going to follow from then on in. But a woman is designed so differently than a man. And somewhere along the way, over the years and the soulless couplings, a sad routine has crept in, a nonfulfillment that we paper over with cheap lace and sickly, artificially flavoured cocktails, devouring insipid articles that tell us that if we can please him, then he can please us.
I crumble eventually and check my phone. The missed call is from a friend I don’t see that often. I pity her. In my dark room, I try and recall why I pity her. Oh right, she doesn’t have a man; hasn’t had one in quite some time. She is one friend that I can have long conversations with that have nothing to do with men. Faced with nothing but my own internal thoughts hammering my brain, there is a taunting voice trying to tell me that I am the pitiful one. I banish this thought with an angry toss of my phone; it doesn’t matter what moods I get into, or that uneasy feeling I sometimes get after another spiritless, aching encounter; I am wanted, I am desired.
I am a woman.
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Header image courtesy of Diego Gravinese. To view a gallery of his paintings, go here.
Caitríona Murphy lives in Dublin, Ireland with her family. Her work has appeared in print and online, including Rollick Magazine, Mash, The Eunoia Review, RTE's 100 words, 100 books and in a forthcoming Irish anthology. Her cat is her biggest fan.