I first had sex when I was 16; I have since had quite a few people inside my body. Some were more welcome than others — like the surgeon who removed my inflamed appendix, and that incredibly hot Dutch photographer in a Utrecht Airbnb, to whom I would have given my appendix, had he asked. Others have only penetrated me with their words or in my fantasies. I am torn between two different versions of that story. In one, I was twentysomething, wild, confident and single.
I met a hot guy in a bar and we went back to his place. He read me some of his poems, I elegantly undressed and we had sex. Then there is the other version. The one in which I felt honoured that someone that conventionally attractive was interested.
The one in which I was very aware that I was one of the only people left in the bar when he approached me and I ignored all the red flags — like the obvious lie about moving to Finland — clearly told so I knew this was just sex.
The version in which I did leave him my number; he just never called. I wanted to feel wanted, I wanted to orgasm, I wanted to feel safe. Instead, I settled for what I thought would be better than nothing.
Both versions feel true. Part of me is adventurous. I do love sex. But another part of me is shit-scared. Of intimacy and rejection. Of not being desirable to potential sexual partners.
