OVER THE EDGE
During a rare weekend alone, author Hollie McNish discovered a transformative sexual pleasure from the most unlikely of sources
Arousal can happen at the strangest of times – and, sometimes, it changes you forever
IT WAS DURING A LEGO CONFERENCE IN DENMARK, or rather an afternoon alone in a hotel room in Denmark as the conference continued in my absence, that I finally, finally believed there was absolutely nothing wrong with me.
I didn’t take ‘too long’ to orgasm; I did not need to simply ‘relax more’ in order to scream dramatic delight in imitation of every straight woman in every film and TV show I’d seen since my teenage years. I did not need to perfect a sultry pout, a breast-enhancing back arch or a series of performative yelps as if sexual pleasure were a photo op on Blackpool’s highest roller coaster. I didn’t need any of that. What I needed was time and a room of my own. With a door that locked. That afternoon, I enjoyed some of the loveliest sex I’d ever had. By myself. For myself.
I’d been invited to the conference to read a poem I’d written called Pink or Blue. I was, and still am, working full-time as an author and poet and it’s rare to be asked to go abroad. I was in my early thirties, living with my sevenyear-old daughter, fitting touring into the two evenings each week she was at her dad’s, or at weekends, in which case she would come to poetry gigs with me. Even when I toured alone, I did so in one or two-day bursts, guilt-ridden and nervous, rushing back for the school pick-up.
But Denmark wasn’t a normal gig. It was a two-day trip to a country I’d never visited before, to read a two-minute poem at 9am to start a conference. Two minutes of work. Two days alone. Hotel room included. Just me.
As requested, I read the poem. People clapped politely. I sat down to listen to the other morning speakers.
At 10.30am – between the first break and a presentation on gendered Lego figurines – I bent forward to put down my plastic cup and the zip of my jeans folded inwards, pressing perfectly into my crotch. I unexpectedly started to feel aroused. I hovered to feel the tingle longer. Leant back up. The zip was firmly in place. I tilted forward, clenched my thighs and began ‘practising my kegels’ while trying not to grit my teeth too obviously.
There was clapping. My clitoris throbbed. A new speaker pressed a button coolly with his thumb, initiating a threeminute video about an actual wall that was built out of actual Lego blocks. As the video ended, I wondered whether, if I continued to clench my pelvic muscles against this dry
humping zip-thigh-chair combo, I might actually orgasm and, if I did, I could be silent enough that no one would notice. I also wondered if it was legal to secretly orgasm in a room full of pinstriped suits and trendy trainers. Either way, I have never been more grateful for my anatomy. If I had a penis,
I thought, I would have an obvious boner right now. How brilliant to have a body that gives so little away.
In the end, too worried that my vocal chords or flushed face might not keep the secret, I waited until the lunch break was called, flung my lanyard like a gauntlet into the ‘used’ box, and legged it across Copenhagen as if racing towards a waiting lover.
Go on a boat tour, my heart scolded as I passed the canal. Visit Den Lille Havfrue statue; make the most of this trip.
Shut up, my body screamed back.
I’m bursting here!
I reached the hotel in a hot-flushed daze. I locked the door behind me, scanned the room. It was all mine. No one cared where I was. No one was asking what was for dinner. No neighbour was about to bang on my door for the third time that day. No one could hear me through the walls. I had all the time I wanted and no one else to please but myself. I leant lightly against the corner of the wooden desk and started to rub up and down. It was like a final flame lit.
Don’t tell me you’re about to make love to a wooden table corner, Hollie, my mind asked. And there it was. My main challenge.
When people speak of the orgasm gap in heterosexual relationships (men orgasming much more often than their female partners) many of my contemporaries point the finger at guys not caring. For me, it wasn’t that. Mostly, the men I’ve dated wanted to be ‘good’. My boyfriend at the time was (and still is) exceptional in this sense, so interested and clued up about these sexual paradigms that he’d tell me off for stopping him during cunnilingus when my ‘you’ve been down there too long and must be hating it’ guilt kicked in.
Despite this, years in a world that constantly feeds us an extremely limited idea of what sex and ‘sexy’ is allowed to be is hard to shake. So I froze for a moment against that hard wood, as if it couldn’t possibly feel as good as it did. Then, determined that I’d spent too long caring about what the world claimed as pleasurable, I slowly dry humped the desk. And it felt so, so good. After I came, I stopped rubbing. Orgasm equals end, right? But I wasn’t done. I wondered if I ever had been. I undressed, got into bed and indulged in my own flesh and fantasies for the entire afternoon.
Afterwards, as I lay panting beneath sheets that I would not have to launder, I felt a sudden grief; a grief for all the years I’d spent disbelieving my own body. If I’d spent less time trying to fit in with the mould of what I should be doing, feeling and wearing to feel sexy (washing an expensive sports car while wearing a string bikini and accidentally spilling the dirty wash water from the bucket on my breasts while I suck my own finger like a lollipop?), I’d have been my own Kama Sutra master by now.
I remember the first time a boyfriend asked me, mid-fingering: ‘Is this good?’ Panic overcame me. I was 18 and we’d not gone further than kissing until that day. We were lying on his bed. My nipples and clitoris and labia (I know of no sexy word for labia yet but I’m hoping more vocabulary will be invented soon if we keep talking about these things) were blissfully glowing.
He stuck his fingers in and out of me. I groaned dramatically, almost on autopilot. After a little more motion, he asked for my advice. Was it right, how he was doing it? Did I do it like that? Looking back, this could have been the turning point of a young sexual life; shameless and safe. I could’ve answered him truthfully. I knew my body enough to explain that thrusting into my vagina as if you could somehow dig out an orgasm was not for me. But I was petrified to say so; I didn’t want to offend him. I’m sure this is a strong sentiment for many. And what if I showed him how I liked to be touched, and it didn’t ‘work’? Or didn’t ‘work’ quickly enough?
Then, if I did tell him how I liked to be touched,
I’d be admitting that I masturbated, and girls did not admit that, least of all to boys. The one friend at secondary school who confessed to it provided a warning for the rest of us, immediately branded both a weirdo and a slag. The gendered double-standard was baffling, but not questioned.
My sex life, like most things, improved with age, but there was always a nagging in the back of my mind: I was a confident adult woman, but still felt like I needed to normalise my pleasure; to fit my sexy into the ‘right’ sexy.
The sex I had on my own that afternoon was ridiculously good – writhing and glorious. And so unexpected, it was like a final slap around the arse reminder that I should stop belittling my desires. If it feels good, Hollie, just go with it.
By late afternoon, I felt wonderfully free. I’d experimented in the safety of this solo space and I was excited to do more of it, both on my own and with my boyfriend.
I finally got dressed and walked down to the canal, keen to see a snatch of the city before dark. I phoned my boyfriend to tell him about the day, the desk, my new Lego fetish. He laughed, congratulating me on my achievements and asked for details. I joyfully told him almost everything. Pleasure is a lovely thing to share, but when we give so much to others, it’s important to keep some things for ourselves.
“Back at the hotel, I had all the
time I wanted and no one else TO PLEASE but myself ”