Why are women like me made to feel ashamed for wanting sex?
She’s got a new boyfriend and her lust for life back in her 50s. Now, in a provocative and all-too frank account, Ulrika Jonsson says ...
His voice, his scent... my senses all came to life If only I could have let go of the fear of being judged
SAYING good night at the end of our first date, the chaste kiss I planted on the cheek of the man I’m now seeing belied the turmoil of sexual longing I felt towards him. Frankly, I wanted to go back to his place and rip his clothes off.
I’d only spent a few hours in the company of this charming, funny and good-looking guy, but already knew I wanted to have sex with him. And yet, I held back.
Partly, that was through a lack of confidence and poor self-image.
I’d only recently come out of a sexless marriage — one that saw my ex-husband, Brian and I, being intimate just once in eight years. I’ve spoken openly about that in this newspaper; its legacy was crippling sexual selfdoubt and an understandably quashed libido.
I found it hard to believe anyone could fancy me. But another issue was that I’d arranged to stay over at a friend’s house that night. I felt loathe to call her and say, ‘I’m going home with that guy I’ve only just met, so don’t wait up’ in case she was appalled.
My pal has since assured me that far from passing judgment she’d have cheered me on, glad that I was finally reviving the absent sex life she knew I’d mourned for so long. Many other friends have echoed her sentiments.
But the fact that I worried what she — and, actually, what he — might think of me had I followed my instincts and initiated sex on our first date just shows how the social conditioning women are subjected to from their teens lingers on.
In other words, despite being a woman of 52 who knows her own mind and really shouldn’t give two hoots what anyone else thinks of her, fears that going back to his place — quite possibly for a one-night stand — would have seen me branded a slut stopped me from doing what I actually desired.
This was back in November. I’m not ready to identify my new man yet.
Let’s just say he’s very slightly younger than me and we share a similar sense of humour. Also, he’s entirely responsible for the two dress sizes I’ve recently dropped because, since meeting him, I’m so giddy and excitable that I sometimes forget to eat.
We met in that oh-so-21st century way, via social media, earlier in the autumn. He’d made very innocuous, non-flirty comments on some posts I’d written and we seemed to strike some kind of chord. Then, in October, he sent me a private message and we started chatting.
There was nothing remotely flirtatious, there were no sexual innuendos — we were just two people sharing our thoughts on how much we love our children, and what a powerful entity family, in whatever form that takes, can be.
I’d been incredibly wary of striking up any kind of dialogue with another man since my marriage ended.
After all, Brian and I had been together for 14 years; I felt far from ready for any romantic liaison and wasn’t even sure I’d know how to engage in one anyway.
But this guy shared my values and the distinct lack of sexual banter made me feel safe with him.
When he suggested that we meet up, I agreed — it seemed a safe, unpressured way of getting myself back out there, something my friends kept urging me to do.
‘This’ll either be the start of something great, or the dullest evening of my life,’ I joked with them. After all, getting to know someone online, where it’s so easy to present your best self, is very different to meeting in the flesh.
The idea of us having sex didn’t occur to me. Honestly, at that point I was so out of touch with my own sexuality I genuinely worried I’d forgotten how to kiss, let alone anything else.
Despite feeling nervous, when I walked into the restaurant we, clearly, immediately hit it off. Even embracing didn’t feel awkward; very quickly seeing him, hearing his voice and the smell of his aftershave seemed to bring my senses to life — even my surroundings suddenly appeared in sharper focus.
The conversation flowed, and we laughed endlessly. When he took hold of my hand across the table it felt entirely natural.
I didn’t even feel nervous when, as we left the restaurant about to say goodbye, he leaned in to kiss me. It turned out to be a full, and very passionate kiss, and something I was relieved to discover I hadn’t forgotten how to do after all.
It was a funny thing, after all those years, to be suddenly so intimately connected to another human being. I felt a bolt of electricity jolting through me, stirring up sensations I’d forgotten existed.
And that was the moment I knew I wanted to have sex with him.
He’s admitted since that he felt a similar connection and was equally fired up. But to make a move on the first date, he told me, would have seemed ungentlemanly.
So, instead of asking me to go home with him he chivalrously suggested we go for a drink.
At the end of the night — both unnerved by the sexual energy between us — our goodbye kiss really was just a peck on the cheek.
But back home I knew I’d denied myself something that was surely my right to enjoy: to have sex — something that had been absent for so long in my life — and all for fear of what others might think.
It bemused me too that he, despite being of similarly mature years, had somehow bought into that, too.
Over the next few days I felt increasingly cross with myself, appalled that at my age, and with my life experiences, I’d allowed the oldfashioned politics of sex and dating that had held me back from any sense of sexual liberation in my youth to somehow affect me again.
That might sound strange coming from a Swedish woman raised in a sexually open society.
I certainly didn’t have any such hang-ups as a child. Growing up I considered sex to be a natural, beautiful and uncomplicated act that was only to be enjoyed. It was also egalitarian, in that either sex could make the first move and without judgment.
But then I moved to England where I was exposed to the kind of sexual politics I’d never encountered before, where it was OK for boys to enjoy sex and pursue one-night stands. Yet any girl openly acting on her own sexual urges was called out and made to feel ashamed.
There were rules when it came to sex, and God help the girl who flouted them.
It didn’t help when, aged 14, I had my first sexual encounter — nothing more than snogging, but my God it awoke a sense of desire for more so strong that it frightened me.
That longing felt both right and yet somehow so very wrong and really shameful — that I’d lost control of myself and that was somehow a bad thing.
But then that’s hardly surprising when the messages I was internalising — that girls who acted on the urges I was most definitely feeling — were sluts.
And so I repressed those feelings of want and need, meaning that sex — I lost my virginity when I was 17 — became unfortunately tinged with a sense of guilt and regret.
That’s not to say those strong sexual feelings ever left me. I largely resisted acting on them outside the realms of serious relationships.
The pity of that is I could have enjoyed so much more uncomplicated and uncommitted sex if only I’d been able to let go of that fear of being judged — and perhaps wouldn’t have put up with my sexless existence with Brian for as long as I did.
Even today, in 2020, I know some people will find those sentiments shocking. There was a time when I wouldn’t have dared speak them, let alone write them down for publication in a national newspaper.
However, now I’m in my 50s I’ve finally taken ownership of my body, and the fact it’s still capable of bringing me great pleasure suddenly feels like something to talk about and celebrate. Why on earth should I feel ashamed of that?
What about your daughters, I’m sure some will ask — doesn’t this amount to encouraging them to have one-night stands?
Well no, of course not. But I wouldn’t want to discourage either Bo, 19, or Martha, 15 (when she’s older) from going down that route if the mood took them as long as they kept themselves safe in the process.
I’ve had some very frank
conversations with my girls about this very subject. Indeed, the fact that my enduring advice to them remains never to feel ashamed of sexual desire — something that’s as natural as eating, breathing and sleeping — added to my frustrations with myself.
After all, I’d allowed my own insecurities stop me from having sex with someone I really liked.
No wonder then, by the time our second date came around a couple of weeks later, neither of us resisted the clear sexual tension between us. Whether we would or wouldn’t sleep together wasn’t something we discussed in advance.
Let’s just say the fact I invited him over to my house, letting him know in advance we’d have it to ourselves for the night, helped move things along.
What was it like to have sex again for only the second time in almost a decade? Fantastic, just about sums it up. And I’m not just talking about the physical pleasure — the joy, and I really do mean that, of being touched and held and feeling wanted again was a gift I’d forgotten one person has the power to give to another.
That’s not to say my insecurities about my body, which has the natural flaws that time and carrying four children have inevitably stamped on it, disappeared. I still hate my boobs and feel self-conscious about being seen undressed . . . there’s excess skin and saggy bits that this guy says he doesn’t notice, but I’m afraid I still do.
But the great thing is that sexual enjoyment suddenly seems far more important than any of the negativity I feel about how I look.
I suspect that’s because intimacy has been missing from my life for so long, and now I have it back I’m determined to cherish it.
I honestly thought that side of me had died; I’d resigned myself to living the rest of my life without sexual connections and the pleasure of touch.
Now I have intimacy back in my life I feel as though I’m rediscovering myself as a sexual being all over again — it’s been a revelation. Again, perhaps you’re reading this and thinking: ‘Her poor girls.’ Don’t worry about them — I told them that I’d slept with him soon after it happened.
Too much information, surely? Well, I don’t think so.
You see, I’m trying to raise them to have attitudes more in line with their Swedish heritage when it comes to sex — to see it as something a woman can enjoy, celebrate and even initiate, even when they’re the age of their wrinkly old mum.
Of course, they made all the predictable retching noises, loudly insisting they don’t want to hear about my sex life.
But, as I pointed out to them, being able to speak to your parents about sex should be a two-way conversation. I should be allowed to talk about it, too.
And that’s because I want my girls to feel able to by-pass the politics of sex and dating. Because really, what a crazy thing that is — to politicise the most natural thing in the world, the greatest gift our bodies have to offer: physical desire.
I’ve been seeing my new man for a few months now. He’s met the kids, we make each other happy, and sexually we’re very compatible.
Where it will lead, I don’t think either of us knows just yet. It’s far too early to say.
But I do know that having had my sexual re-awakening I’ve no intention of ever letting it go back into hibernation.
I plan to have plenty more sex, which I’ll thoroughly enjoy, and for the first time in my life I really don’t care what anyone else thinks.
I remembered the joy of being held, of being wanted