A venture in exposition
Article and Art by Gemma Marx
I am not a prude. If anything, the opposite! I’m super sex-positive and experimental, ask any of my friends or ex-lovers (but please don’t actually, that would be very uncomfortable). Not to overshare, but there are few things I wouldn’t try, and many things I like that would make you blush (don’t get excited, I won’t be sharing). The thought of exposing myself in a space as public as a school magazine, though, makes me more squeamish than a rope around my wrists ever has.
I mean, fuck, maybe older people are right, maybe we shouldn’t air out our dirty laundry. Maybe some things should be kept private. Maybe we should stop talking about periods and bodily fluids and mental health. Let’s just bottle it all up, the way our parents were taught, have a glass of wine and cry alone in the bathroom.
I saw my therapist for about three years before I dared tell her about my sexual or romantic life. From 15 to 18, she must have thought I was a total virgin, not an impure thought to be found. It wasn’t until I was 20 that I said anything about women being a part of my sex life.
What if my mom saw this? I’ve always told her (almost) everything, all about my sordid drug use and enthusiastic drinking habits, but God forbid she knows about any groping or stroking or moaning. It’s amazing the stuff that happens right under people's noses that they ignore. Like when Greta stayed with us; my mom walked into my room while we were panting, fumbling to throw my blanket over our naked bodies in my childhood bed, but happily accepted that we were “just watching a movie.”
I’m still surprised when I’m called sexy. Cute, I expect; pretty, I know; but sexy catches me off guard. The disconnect is striking. I’ve had sex with many people (I do, shamefully, keep a list, but I will not divulge the number or the names because I am a lady, which I hope you are starting to realize), yet I feel silly before I feel sexy.
I blame my mom first and foremost. She taught me that being sexy was trashy. She scoffed at girls wearing skinny jeans and tight crop tops in the Atlantic Center, their soft bellies showing. She talked shit about the dresses with plunging necklines that my older brothers’ girlfriends wore at their graduations. The magazines, subway ads, and shows I grew up on showed me that “sexy” is reserved for cool, aloof girls with sultry faces, high cheekbones, pouty lips, and coy laughs.
As a child I was told that if I were an animal I'd be a hyena because I don’t laugh, I giggle; my chubby cheeks and an ever present smile on my round face were constantly pointed out.
Hyenas are not coy and round faces with big smiles cannot be sultry. That didn’t stop me from trying, though.
For our eighth grade trip to some upstate NY resort there were no bikinis allowed in the pool. If you had one you had to wear a t-shirt over it. My friend and I were smarter than our middle school admin; after saving up our lunch money for a few weeks, we went to SoHo before our trip and bought the skimpiest, most cleavage enhancing, butt baring one pieces we could find. No one could fuck with us, we were in one pieces.
I remember feeling queasy walking down to the pool, hyper aware of my still pale early spring stomach revealed by side cuts, and my thighs emerging from the ridiculously high cut material. I was so much bigger than my tiny friend.
I’ve learned that I am sexiest in the summer, in a bikini, running on sand, almost naked but not quite. I have come to believe that I am sexiest when the sun's magic powers have tanned my skin, making me appear toned (I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit this, but the point is to free myself from the embarrassment).
I’d like to say it was just to rebel against my mother’s repulsion towards Bratz dolls and promiscuous lifestyles that made me run towards them, but it was much deeper, much more insidious.
I can’t absolve society of its role in my upbringing (not to be that person, but no one is safe from the male gaze under the patriarchy). Supermodels walking down the catwalk at male fashion designers’ shows, the Teen Vogue and Seventeen magazines I begged my mom to buy me at airports as a child, and the outdated fashion magazines I carefully studied at the hairdresser and in doctors’ waiting rooms, all that shit. I loved the “Who Wore it Best” sections. I figured out what makes women attractive early, probably at seven, without ever thinking about what attracted me to things.
That’s not entirely true, though — that I feel most sexy in bathing suits in the summer.
As I’ve gotten older, felt comfortable in sexual situations, had sex with people I care about and who care about me, I’ve discovered that I feel wildly sexy the morning after. My hair sculpted into a rat’s nest of gnarls and frizz, my mouth smelling thickly, nestled under many blankets or draped by a ratty sweatshirt. Dried crust around my lips, sleepies in the corner of my eyes blurring my vision, my body stinky and sweet as I roll over to see a warm face looking at me in all my glory.
Sorry for lying before.
My morning self is my sexiest. It’s also my favorite time to have sex, which makes me feel mature. I like to be in bed early; I don’t often have the inspiration to stay up rolling around until the sun starts to rise these days. I blame my sobriety and middle-aged lifestyle habits. But after a night of cozy cuddly sleep, I want nothing more than to waste hours in bed making two into one. Disappearing into each other; utterly ensconced and enrapt and terribly hungry.
A boy I once thought I loved teased me constantly, making fun of me for enjoying “boring missionary sex.”
He had a problem with getting hard and he blamed me, said I wasn’t exciting enough. He said he would find me sexy if he put a ball gag on me and pulled my hair and stuff (I won’t get into the “and stuff,” it’s probably too depressingly familiar for a lot of you anyway). I thought that would make me feel better, more desirable and sexy so I let him. He got hard, and I didn’t say no. I was 19. I realize now that it wasn’t about the kind of sex we were having. I was never going to feel sexy with him.
What’s the difference between sexy teasing and mean teasing? That line has often been fuzzy for me.
I used to keep a list of all the cool places I’d had sex at like awards, a testament to my adventurousness, to my fearlessness (again, I won’t say anything more, but know it’s an impressive list). My friends and I used to compare, I always wanted to shock and outdo them (sad, I know).
This is all to say, I am not a prude, I am unashamed and super sex-positive, comfortable and confident in my sensuality. I swear! (And if you don’t believe me yet, I hope it’s enough that I’m trying really hard).
I can admit that my favorite place to have sex is in a big comfy bed, and my favorite position, while not quite missionary (eat worms Noah), is the butterfly. I know what I like.
It’s poetic that I prefer the butterfly. What creature is more sexy (think tramp stamps) than a butterfly? (I’d like to acknowledge that butterflies are more than sex icons, they are also beautiful and brave).