I’ve been trying to walk a tightrope between hiding from the world and opening up to relationships, but I just keep landing between the sheets.

When I was growing up I was as equally as apprehensive of sex as I was intrigued by it. I think it’s safe to say that I was afraid of love and intimacy and I just didn’t have a lot of information about sex. I remember being locked in a room with my elementary school crush while my brothers snickered and teased that I was giving him this thing called a “blow job”. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it must be bad. I stood there, arms crossed, scowl on my face. I had been pretending to hate this boy up until this moment and that was not about to change. Vulnerable was not going to be the way. I had learned to be tough – emotions locked away – I didn’t need love if it was gonna cost this much.

I didn’t kiss a boy until I was 16. He was 19. He kissed me and immediately asked me if I wanted to give him a blow job. I gracefully declined. It wasn’t sweet to say the least. Staying at a friend’s house one night, I ended up sharing a bed with that same boy and he aggressively pushed himself on me until I managed to pushed him off. He kicked me out of the room saying “Put out or get out”, and so I slept on the living room couch with no pillows or blankets. I felt almost more humiliated than traumatized in the moment. I did not recognize the trauma until years later. I didn’t know to define what happened to me as a sexual assault. I used the word attempted a lot. Attempted sexual assault. As if somehow him trying to rape me didn’t make it rape. I didn’t open myself up to another boy until I met eyes with the beautiful blue eyed surfer who would become my very first boyfriend. He was romantic and kind. His first attempt at intimacy with me was intensely denied. I had my first PTSD trigger response. I was terrified. He never tried again and that was a wonderful gift. He left it in my hands for when I was ready. he showed me that I have a choice.

I lost my virginity at 20 years old to one of my still now best friends, who ended up coming out of the closet 6 months after we broke up. I will always stand by the fact that even though he couldn’t love me the way he wanted to, that he was the best person to have my very first sexual experience with. He was sweet and loving and he made me feel safe.

I ventured into the dating world, now a woman who had had sex. Before this it was easy to say no because it hadn’t happened. It needed to be special (the pressures around virginity are real). But now? What did it require to have sex again? Did it require a relationship? Did it still require “special”? These were the questions I wasn’t sure how to answer for myself. So I took it one dude at a time, from boyfriends to boys I met at bars. Well, actually, only one boy I met at a bar and I can’t remember his name, and I never saw him again. A true one-night-stand. I could not tell you a thing about that night; so unmemorable. Truthfully, I was young and not having great sex overall at that point in my life. I was shy, insecure, didn’t know my body, and didn’t know what was actually pleasurable to me. I didn’t know I was traumatized or how that affected my sex life. And further more, it wasn’t about the sex for me – I was looking for love.

When I was 23 years old a man raped me. A man I met at a friend’s birthday party. It played out like so many scenarios I had been in before. I met a guy I liked. I wanted to continue hanging out. We left the party and went back to my place. I had made it clear that even though we were going to my place that I wasn’t going to have sex with him. The plan was to get to know him. Kiss, cuddle, talk all night; the things romantic movies are made of. The hope was that he’d eventually love me.

He raped me.

This experience changed the foundation of relationships and sex for me completely.

I met my next boyfriend a month after I was raped. It was a relationship that never had a chance. He became someone to turn to; someone who I could be completely broken with and he would still be there. We broke up very quickly and I turned to late-night run and starving myself.

Nearly a year later I tried dating again. I was dating a guy I really liked and after we had sex for the very first time he said, “glad we got that out of the way”. I was completely shocked and mortified. Got what out of the way? Sex? Intimate connection? It was not an easy or small decision for me to have sex. Truly it never was, but especially after being sexually assaulted. I walked away from that relationship realizing I wanted more. I didn’t want to get sex out of the way. I wanted to enjoy sex. I wanted love and intimacy and vulnerability. I wanted the sweetness and safety and kindness I had with my first boyfriend, and with my gay boyfriend, but I wanted that with a person that I really wanted to have sex with; someone I could really be vulnerable with, but more so enjoy with. I wanted to be locked in a room with my elementary school crush and kiss him (preferably without my brothers yelling about blow jobs on the other side of the door).

Funny thing is, the night I left from “get it out of the way” guy’s apartment, I ended up meeting a man I was to love. He was kind and romantic. He was the first person to really love me. We were together for four years. We moved into together. We got engaged. We were all in. I fell out of love. But it was safe and it was sweet and it was in this relationship that I started to learn to really enjoy sex. It was in this relationship that I started to make my pleasure (my orgasm) as much a priority as the person I was with.

My next love I wasn’t expecting at all, but it was like a song. Falling in love with him was physically painful (a good kind of painful). He was beautiful. The way he looked at me…. We played. We fought. We had amazing sex. We made love. I had never made love before. Forget learning how to enjoy sex physically. Forget the orgasm! (jk, jk, don’t forget that, that’s good stuff). Opening your heart, so wide open it’s bursting; making love so intensely that you’re barely moving, but you feel like you’re crashing into each other, that’s the goods. Completely indescribable, almost spiritual, it was in this relationship that I learned to love during sex. It was in this relationship that I realized the importance of the marriage between love and sex. It was in this relationship that I realized that when sex is love, it is in its greatest form.

At the time, I believed with all my heart that I would spend the rest of my life with this man. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make babies. I had never cared about babies before. I loved him more and more each day. We were together four years. We lived together. We worked together. We were partners. We lost each other. Losing this man, losing our future, felt like it nearly broke me. For the first 9 months after we split, the idea of having sex with another person made me physically ill. I ended up in weird non-sexual, juvenile-like, but sweet relationships with men who I just kissed and giggled with. Probably what I would have been doing in my youth had I been open to it.

It’s been a year and a half now since he and I separated. I’m (finally) feeling more and more ready to date and have sex. But I also I find myself feeling like that 20-something year old girl who couldn’t answer any of these questions: What does it require to have sex again? Does it require a relationship? Does it require love (special)?  And once again I find myself taking it one dude at a time. It’s different this time around for a few reasons: 1) Re-entering the dating world is terrifying-  if a man raped me once, it could happen again. Trust doesn’t come easily when you’re not disconnected from your trauma 2) Connecting to people who I’m not in love with or know on a deep level, after basically 8 years of committed love and sex, is a little weird at first but 3) I’m no longer that shy insecure girl who isn’t really enjoying sex. I really enjoy sex. And I know what I like and know what I want, and most importantly I’m not looking for sex to be a place-filler for love. I feel like I’m in a place where I can appreciate sex outside of love.

So, I’ve been having sex. I was hiking with a friend recently and I said, “I don’t even think I can call what I’m doing dating, I think it’s really just fucking.” That’s probably not a totally fair statement. I have gone out on some dates – to dinners and even the beach! (beach dates for the romantic win!) But mostly, I’ve just had some really good sex.

So I say, why can’t I be a lady who gets laid? Why can’t I have enjoyable unattached (from love, not chemistry) sex? Just like feminism isn’t just for babes, liberation ain’t just for dudes.

But then I met a guy that I like. And when I say “like”, it’s not that I didn’t like the other dudes – sex without chemistry is not a game I engage in – but with this guy it felt different. The first night we met we just talked all night. We didn’t even kiss. I knew even then that my attraction to him was different. He looked at me like he was attracted to my heart and my brain and I felt the same. We didn’t end up seeing each other for two months after that night. A plan was never established since our connection was built upon his platonic offer to let me and my friend crash in his guest room. I was actually surprised he didn’t try anything, because that sounded like a line. After that night I kept thinking about him. Wondering if he felt a connection too. So I texted him one night that my friend and I were at the bar by his house. He was excited to join us. We hung out all night. He likes me. He told me so. He even claimed it was obvious. No, no it wasn’t obvious, since I didn’t hear from him for two months. But I gave him a pass on that one because just like me he had recently exited a decade of back to back serious relationships. Just like me, he’s a little (heart) broken. So it was good that we didn’t act on anything right away. It’s probably better we gave ourselves two whole extra months to heal (Probably definitely didn’t make a difference). That night we did had sex. I left feeling a little giddy, but as hours and days went by without hearing from him, suddenly the good sex I had didn’t feel so good. I was left feeling rejected and disappointed. I was not feeling liberated. Turned out that wanting something more made liberation a little trickier. Would I have had sex with this man if I knew I would never see him again? Probably not. Definitely not. Not this one. Not this time.

This moment of rejection had information for me though. Since my ex and I split I haven’t wanted something more. I haven’t wanted more than a physical connection. I suddenly did. This experience showed me that I was open to love again, eventually. So how do I remain open to love and open to sex without love? Is it possible?

Maybe the obvious answer to some people is just not sleeping with someone unless I’m in a relationship, but that’s not what I want right now. I don’t know when I will be in a relationship again, but I really enjoy sex. I’m really enjoying having sex.

So the better question might be, how do I take care of myself emotionally while navigating sex outside of relationships when there’s a chance I might feel something more? How do I not shame myself or allow an unfulfilled expectation to say something about me? (because society already does enough of that for me)

And for me it goes something like this:

I’ve had sex with men that I thought were awesome people, that I had great chemistry with, yet still, it was clear to both of us that it was never going to be more than that. I don’t think less of these men, and they don’t think less of me. I don’t think less of our experience together. I have liked and lusted after a lot of people, but I’ve been in love twice. A true loving connection, the kind that results in wanting to build a relationship is the rarity. So all of the experiences that I have the privilege to enjoy in the in-between are just as important. And some can be disappointing. Some will be disappointing. Others will be fun and flirty and pleasurable and joyful. And I’m here for it. I’m here for it all.

I do feel it’s important to say that safety is a non-negotiable. There were times after I was assaulted that I had sex as a way to process the trauma. I understand where I was at emotionally and I wrap that girl in compassion because PTSD is a beast. I also do believe sex is more than a physical connection. I don’t think it should be undervalued. The hallmarks of good sex for me are pleasure, connection and consent.

I was raised in a world that puts my joy and pleasure second. A world that told me from a very young age that I’m not enough unless I’m sexuality desired by men and certainly not enough if I act on it. There is no way to win under those rules. So, what is liberation? It is following my own joy, knowing that my pleasure matters and that having consensual joyful sex is my birth right. Knowing that a disappointing experience is not a confirmation from the universe that I should have known my place.

This is easier said than felt on some days. So I write this note to remember. I write this note to say to the world: I’m on to you and I do not accept these terms. I will have a life filled with joy. I will have a life filled with experiences. I will not be small. I will not put myself second. I will not know my place.

Liberation is defined as the act of setting someone free from oppression. Sex is not an act of liberation, it has always belonged to me, but knowing that it belongs to me is what sets me free.