Desire & Orgasm: Getting Under the Sheets

Hey crew! 👋

Here’s your weekly dose of Pillow Talk. But first - registration’s open for our Cultivate Desire Program 🎉 Separate to the app, you’ll get 9 science and activity-packed modules, coaching calls, a private community, and bonus resources. If you want to increase your desire and enjoy sex more, book your call to learn more.

This week, I wanted to re-share something I wrote awhile back. It’s a different flavour than usual and a longer read, but one that explores the lived experiences of many of the women and folx with vulvas in our community. 💕

"I love my partner but over the last year, I've forgotten what it feels like to want sex. It's almost like we're roommates, just sort of...cohabiting."

She shifts on the couch and pauses for a moment. Playing with a loose thread on her sweater, she absentmindedly picks at the thin black string.

"I keep going round and round in my head worrying that we're not having sex as much as we should... that I should be initiating more... that maybe I'm not attractive enough... honestly, it takes so much work and I'm just really tired."

Her voice wavers slightly. It's such a subtle break that I almost miss it. She clenches her jaw. She's trying so hard not to cry. As if one of our most basic human responses is somehow a sign of weakness and is instead something to be embarrassed about.

I'm reminded of my own experiences of being in sexless relationships. The evening I spent crying in an ex's bathroom, changing out of my newly bought lingerie into oversized pyjamas because he'd told me I'd made him uncomfortable.

The feeling rejected, not good enough, humiliated. But also angry. Like I was giving up a part of myself in order to hold space for him and his needs at the expense of my own. And then, because we’re never easy on ourselves, I felt guilt for feeling angry and then angry for feeling guilty and on it goes.

But also, my experiences of being on the other end of it. The one who didn't want sex after 6 years with a partner who did. How I'd tense at the slightest change in his touch, feeling it shift from non-sexual to sexual and bracing at the expectation of what came along with it. How I strategically went to bed later than him and woke up earlier, just so there’d be no risk of sex.

How when we did have sex, I’d stare at the ceiling, disconnected from my body and wonder to myself, how much longer until he’s done? How I'd have a tape on repeat in my head, “If I love him, I should want to have sex with him. If I love him, I should want to have sex with him.” Followed by the ever-present ‘is this it’?

I bring my attention back to our conversation, back to her. The flick of her fingers against the thin black thread. The growing wetness in her eyes.

I barely know her, yet in some ways, I probably know her more intimately than her closest friends and family. All I want to do is give her a big squeeze and reassure her that whatever way things go, she's going to be okay.

"I've never had an orgasm."

This time, I'm walking along the river. I can hear the crunch, crunch, crunch of gravel beneath my shoes. I turn up the volume on my headphones, her voice clear in my ears. This is the first time we've ever spoken.

"I know I shouldn't place so much emphasis on getting off, but it's hard not to. Deep down I feel like I'm broken because my body doesn't work properly. It's like I'm outside, stood at a window, looking in on this experience that everyone else gets to have, and I'm not sure I ever will. And if I can't orgasm, how is that ever going to be enough for someone else? Who's going to want to me?"

"That sounds like a lot of self-judgment and a lot of 'what if's'," I answer. A woman walks by me with a black lab. "Talk me through that last bit." The line is quiet for a moment. She clears her throat.

"I guess I've never really taken the time to explore myself in that way. I was raised Catholic and I kind of have a phobia of touching myself. It's hard to just... let go. And to not feel shame. It's like my mind and body are out of sync and the more I try to connect them, the more anxious and detached I get. It's just frustrating. I feel confident outside of the bedroom, but when it comes to sex, I just wish I knew what I want and how to ask for it."

I think back to my own upbringing, to the messages I'd received - or not received - about sex. Despite having sex at 15, I didn't masturbate until my 20s. Not because I was told it was wrong, but more because I wasn't told anything about it at all. After taking a women’s studies elective in uni, my ex bought me a neon pink Rabbit vibrator, veins and girth and rotating pearls and all. He told me, “it was my right to masturbate.”

I remember thinking, don’t f*cking tell me what to do. But also, if it is my right, why hadn’t anyone told me that before?

It took me 7 months (and a breakup) to take that vibrator out of it’s box. It's sad really. How for so many of us, the hands of others have explored our bodies before we've even given ourselves permission to explore them on our own.

Over the last few months, I've been running our Cultivate Desire course

One of the things that comes up time and time again is the fear of being 'normal'. Whatever the f*ck normal means anyways. And unfortunately, because we never talk about sex, we never actually realise the commonness of it.

How despite being so phenomenally different from one another, many of us are struggling with the same things. Confidence, overthinking, intimacy, disconnection, desire, orgasm, rejection, imposter syndrome, relationships...

So, for any of y'all who are holding any shame. It's the keeping secret and self-judgment, that gives it power. I promise you, that whatever you're navigating – the good, the bad and anything in between – someone else is navigating it too. 

Here's to being vulnerable, being resilient and being tougher than we often give ourselves credit for.

p.s. If you want to increase desire and/or manage painful sex, apply for our Cultivate Desire Summer Program Here