Sex in your 20s, 30s, 40s

How does lovemaking change through the decades? Three women open up.

SOMETHING SEX

By J.G., 29, writer I’d always wanted sex before I actually had sex. As a teen ipping through steamy novels and watching the occasional porn ick, I thought sex seemed so pleasurable that I ached to experience it with someone – not just my hand.

I didn’t buy into the whole sacred virginity thing. I just wanted to do it. All the positions, all the kinks.

I lost my virginity at 21. He was a university schoolmate, handsome, with a bad-boy thing going on. I had expected a mindblowing experience, but instead, all I got was awkward fumbling in a cramped bed and a vagina that refused entry at rst, and then felt absolutely nothing except for an uncomfortable tightness.

Still, not wanting to appear like a complete starsh, I made the requisite porn-star sounds and then faked an orgasm so it would end. We never saw each other again.

I wish I could say that I went on to have thrilling sexy times, but I didn’t. I thought that with more experience, I would get good at it, and then I would get the amazing orgasmic sex I wanted. I hoped that whoever I slept with would get so addicted to me, they would never want to leave me.

I should’ve realised then that my problem wasn’t a lack of experience, but of self-esteem.

For the next three years, I got the kind of sex I did want. My next partner was emotionally abusive and selsh. We started out passionate, doing it at least twice or thrice each time we met, him because he was a young man with a raging libido, me because I never said no.

His style was crude and careless, always putting his own needs rst. Whenever I said no to sex, he would accuse me of not loving him. If I suggested something kinky like spanking, he would take it too far, ignoring my protests when I no longer felt safe or comfortable. “How can we have a healthy relationship if you keep changing your mind like that?” he asked. Yet, I never spoke up. I was afraid he might leave me if I criticised him. Even if I derived zero pleasure from the act, I quickly learnt that pretending I enjoyed it would get me the affection and approval I craved. I did get a lot more experience – but in faking extremely convincing orgasms. It took me a long time to stop blaming myself for the bad sex I was getting. I grew to detest porn. The enthusiasm of the performers now seemed fake. Sex does not feel good, I thought. How can they even pretend to enjoy what they’re doing? The turning point came when I left him and dated a better guy. It didn’t work out for reasons that included his depression and porn addiction. But our relationship did