Someway into my 24th year I became obsessed with the search of The Big O. My naivety, a weakness of my twenties, and now, had shielded me from not only experiencing the female orgasm but from even knowing that it existed. Once my friends stopped laughing they decided to help.
I was in a live in relationship with a then 21 year old I had met straight out of high school, he was sweet, extraordinarily handsome, young and well built. He was also unemployed, unambitious, and a homebody who detested spending money. Our lives consisted of going without nice food, a social life, holidays and hobbies so that we could save for menial possessions. As he paid off lay-buys for video recorders and computer game machines I started to feel my whole life was on lay-buy. One that I could never afford to pick up. I wasn't sure what I wanted out of life, but I felt that even the white picket fence out the front of our tidy 90's villa was mocking my desire for something more exciting. It's no wonder sex became a chore.
I had flown the coop so to speak, well at least three nights a week and on weekends. After discovering that being terrible at sport was quite enjoyable when there was a lot of drinking involved, I found myself happier at the football club than I ever was at home. My team mates decided the reason for this was bad sex, and Monday, Wednesday and Friday training sessions were often followed by, well, training sessions. It was a butch version of Sex and the City. Instead of designer clothes and cocktails it was joggers, jeans and beer, but the content of the conversations were much the same.
After several months of transferring my new found knowledge to the bedroom I was still no closer and starting to stress out. In an attempt to loosen my inhibitions, more beer would be consumed, but this would back fire as by the time I got home from all my consumption activities my mystified partner was well and truly asleep. That's when the fighting began, not happy with being at home all alone and me spending all the money I earned on alcohol, the numbingly peaceful home started to turn toxic.
It wasn't the bad sex that was making the relationship bad, it was the bad relationship that was making the sex bad, or at least killing my enjoyment of it. Six months and an attempted rerun later the whole thing was over and I was starting to discover that my new uni friend, despite all appearances might not actually be gay. I was wrong, but more on that another day. In the meantime he was providing me with an opportunity for practice. I will admit, he wasn't the only one during that year that I styled my craft on, but he was the most reliable and fun to be around in general.
Eventually, a year later I found it. Not the way I thought. I had had it all wrong. I was looking for something that made me scream, when what I really needed was something that made me truly relax. We are all different, and just like we all want something different out of life, our hidden and most desirable treasure will differ greatly also. I am not saying you shouldn't listen to the advice of your mates, just don't waste 18 months of your time obsessing over something when you don't really know what it is you are looking for.
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