HE WANTS TO KNOW … ‘Why is she so shy in bed?’
My girlfriend’s twenty (I’m thirty) and quite inexperienced sexually. She’s so nervous it puts me off. We’ve only had sex a handful of times in six months. I don’t want to push her, but I want to have sex! How can I help her get past her nerves?
Shyness can be debilitating and I’m sure she appreciates your patience. You’re right not to push her—it will add to her self-consciousness. But you do have to talk. Choose a quiet, private time on neutral ground—ideally walking hand-in-hand and side-by-side outdoors (this minimises eye contact). Say, ‘I’d like to talk about our sex life—no need to answer now, but I need us to think about how to move forward.’ She may be relieved: you won’t be the only one fretting about it.
Write to: RACHEL MORRIS, Cosmopolitan, 72 Broadwick Street, London W1F 9EP, or e-mail rachel@cosmopolitan.co.uk
SEX MISTAKES BY THE WOMEN WHO’VE MADE THEM
If you could hit rewind on your sex life, what would you go back and change? Six writers reveal what they wish they’d known from the start
‘I wish … I’d known it’s OK to masturbate,’ says writer and blogger Zoe Margolis
When I turned twenty, I was a bit unsure of my sexual self. I was aware that I was bisexual, but didn’t know how to express it. I also had a keen interest in sex, but felt embarrassed about it. I’d love to revisit that time in my life and explore my body a bit more, because I know my lack of confidence came from not knowing myself and what did and didn’t work for me.
Sex with my first-ever boyfriend was disappointing because of that. We’d go in search of my clitoris many times and, while I would occasionally shout, ‘Yes! Yes! That’s it!’, when he came up for air, if he asked, ‘Sorry, where was that again?’, I didn’t know what to say.
We just couldn’t find the right spot and, given that I didn’t know how to bring myself to orgasm at that point, how could I expect him to?
If I’d known that there’s no shame in masturbation and nothing wrong with using my hands or a toy, porn or my imagination, I would’ve learnt earlier that pleasure is a positive thing. Asking for what you know you enjoy, rather than hoping for it, is empowering.
So I wish I’d become familiar with what felt nice and why and I wish I’d felt more comfortable about satisfying myself. My self-discovery improved not just the pleasure I had on my own, but my enjoyment of sex with others. It was only later in life I realised that these things are inextricably connected.
Zoe wrote the smash-hit blog and bestselling book Girl With A One-Track Mind, writing as ‘Abby Lee’
‘I wish … I’d realised condoms aren’t like crisp packets,’ says writer Sarah Morgan
Despite growing up in the 80s and 90s, when the girl group TLC pinned condoms to their dungarees and Judith Hann fiddled with Femidoms on Tomorrow’s World, the whole experience of buying them makes me go wibbly. It’s complicated and embarrassing, like ventriloquism.
You know when you’re buying mascara and you can’t tell the difference between lengthening, plumping and separating, and you go a bit cross-eyed and start gibbering in Superdrug? It’s basically that feeling, but with sex and shame thrown in.
So, despite spending my twenties as a healthy, uh, liberated, er … What’s the polite way to put this? Despite having been round the block more times than an ice-cream van, I’d (shamefully) always left that side of things to the gentleman. That is, until one fateful night. It was a second date, he was coming to mine and I knew I should stock up. Confronted with lubricated tips and Fetherlites and stimulating nodules, I panicked and grabbed the nearest red box. In my naivety, I thought red meant plain. You know, like crisps.
Turns out I’d picked up something called Tinglers. Ever experienced someone squeezing a whole tube of toothpaste inside you? That’s what this felt like. Meanwhile, he looked like he’d smeared himself in Deep Heat and made a sound like a dog eating a hot chip. I explained the whole ‘red/plain crisps’ rationale and, luckily, he laughed.
Reader, I married him—two years later. Okay, so there are less traumatising ways of accelerating a relationship, like tattooing his face on yours. But it could’ve been worse: we could have had no condoms at all. I know we’re all marvellously liberated now and buy condoms with our cornflakes, but it can still feel a bit awkward to make that move yourself. But don’t be shy; don’t leave it up to him. And just remember that blue usually means ultra-thin. Not salt and vinegar.
Sarah is a writer for TV and radio sketches, sitcoms and comedy dramas
‘I wish … I’d known eight things,’ says writer and columnist Hannah Betts
1. Know thyself. I’m glad I didn’t have loads of sex in my twenties—I wasn’t ready for it. Things change; keep tabs on what makes you happy.
2. Don’t devote too much time to sex: all lovers come and go. Women pride themselves on ‘making things work,’ but sometimes relationships should be allowed to die.
3. Sex just gets better—and better and better. If you’re already having a blast in the bedroom, then yee-hah! If things are a tad more ‘meh,’ have patience, my friend. Legions of women take a while to get into their sexual stride—but once they do, there’s no stopping them …
4. Beware of oxytocin, the post-coital bonding hormone. Great sex and great love are different things.
5. These days there’s a good deal of performance pressure arising from the ubiquity of porn. This may be up your street or it may not. Consult Makelovenotporn.com for some food for thought.
6. Regarding penises: enormous ones may require sturdier condoms, advanced pelvic-floor skills and telling him to calm the f**k down (not that chaps tend to mind a woman gasping, ‘It’s just SO HUGE.’)
7. Cystitis is the bane of many a twenty-something existence. Try not to be too drunk and dehydrated when you do it. If that’s too tricky, take super-high-dose cranberry pills before, after, next morning and next day. Wash after sex and insist he is hygienic. Persuade your GP that you can be trusted with your own stock of antibiotics.
8. Most importantly, ENJOY.
‘I wish … I’d accepted my imperfections,’ says Alissa Nutting, author of controversial new novel Tampa
I used to believe that every detail of my body needed to be perfect if I was going to hook up with someone. I thought my legs and underarms had to be freshly shaved, my skin devoid of spots, my body in the greatest physical shape of my life. Never did I ask myself if I had the same high standards for my potential partner, although I most certainly didn’t.
Eventually I came to see the ridiculousness of this. Imagine getting the keys to a Ferrari, but refusing to drive it because there’s a bit of dirt on the bumper. Or worse, driving the Ferrari and failing to enjoy it because you’re so worried about imperfections that have nothing at all to do with the ride. Sex is about pleasure, not about scrutinising flaws.
Any mental energy you spend on being self-conscious is brainpower that could be going towards building up to an amazing orgasm. It actually wasn’t until I specifically told myself that the goal of sex was reaching bliss that I realised something scary: my previous goal—the goal that had me checking myself repeatedly in the mirror and putting clothes back on the moment we were done—wasn’t about having fun. It was about seeking acceptance through the physical approval of another person.