This is a guest post from one my readers — Liza. Thank you Liza for sharing your intimate story with us.
I waited almost 25 years to have sex.
I decided to have sex with my first boyfriend eight weeks shy of my 25th birthday.
I didn’t hurt. It wasn’t fantastic. It was just … whatever.
I enjoyed sex with my first boyfriend, but it was always something that felt like an act. Felt like part of a relationship. It was compounded by the emotional negligence of an early conversation about my weight and a desperately successful attempt at losing weight for him. Missionary kept my stomach flat. Reverse cowgirl gave him a nice view of my back, kept my stomach out of view.
We ended. I waited 2½ more years to have sex again. There were weekend trysts with everything but sex. Men with muscles, men who knew what they were doing, men who had not idea what they were doing.
Then I met my current boyfriend, I knew it was going to be different. On our third date I wanted to jump him. I was dying for a kiss and finally I went in for it. I whispered into his ears “on the lips!” He ran his hands down my back, pulled me into him by my hips and kissed me.
I walked away aching. I wanted him.
Sex in the beginning of our relationships started with a weekend getaway that reminded me what sex was like..yeah whatever. We had romantic and intimate times which were great, but they all revolved around me taking control. I wasn’t in the right head space to let him please me, I couldn’t surrender. I was worried about my weight, my body, if I was good.
I was trying to control my sexual relationship, like I controlled food. It wasn’t working. I was wanting it to be perfect, prescriptive and controlled.
I remember talking to my pysch about it. I remember thinking that I had to let go mentally. I had to be something that I’ve never allowed myself to be: intimate and indulged for my own sake.
I had mentioned to him how frustrated I was with some of the sex that we’d been having, because I felt like I was fat. That he couldn’t possibly love what he saw. He said to me “I love you. My dick gets hard whenever I touch you. I know what you look like, I don’t keep my eyes closed when I fuck you.”
It was time to let go. Instead of just jumping into the act, I relaxed and let myself feel, enjoy and partake in foreplay. Anyone can lie on their back, spread their legs and moan. I wanted to scream with enjoyment.
We found what worked for us. Instead of being frustrated with sex, I loved it. I loved hearing him come. I loved his sweat up against my stomach. I loved the way he sucked my nipples, twisted them when I begged for it. I loved his fingers.
I loved his hard dick inside of me. Instead of worrying about how my stomach was hanging. How large my thighs felt … I felt sexed up in every single way.
I remember how much better sex felt. How much more connected I was to him. I remember after he came, I laid there in his arms as he and I finished me off. I left him watch, participate. Then I let myself soar into the bliss of an orgasm and it was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life.
Then I started bawling.
Uncontrollable sweaty tears streaming down my hot mascara smeared face. He pulled me into his sticky manly chest and held me.
“What’s wrong baby?”
“I’m just so in love with you. You make me feel amazing. I just love having sex with you. I just couldn’t control how I felt.”
I know now that sex with him is about both of us. It’s not about a flat stomach, a weight on a scale or just laying there taking it. I know what works for him, he knows what works for me.
I still cry. He loves it. I love it. It’s the emotional blissful place where I’m totally one with the moment. Where I release into the best place I’ve been … with myself and with a man that gets me.