The first time I talked about my complicated relationship with sex it was in a group therapy setting. I was shaking and sweating from anxiety. I could hear words from the group, but they sounded muffled, distant, like I was underwater. I thought I was going to pass out. I was falling apart just thinking about how these people I’d come to love in a short space of time would judge me. I was terrified. I managed to squeak out the words I had triple locked inside me for years. I had looked over the precipice in the past, but this was the first time I felt safe enough to let my words fall over the edge.
Ultimately, it wasn’t finding the courage that mattered, but how what I said was received that began my transition into the person I am today that doesn’t shut up about sex. No one said, ‘Don’t worry’, ‘It’s fine’ or ‘You’ll be OK’. Instead, they thanked me for sharing. No other words. They let me sit with the moment. And that was everything. The before didn’t change the after. I was still me.
As the day progressed, people came to me one by one, unplanned, and spoke to me of their stories. They’re not mine to share here but they were shared with me to normalise my own. I felt like the village elders were giving me the gift of their lived truths. By unburdening themselves of memories of formative sexual encounters they’d rarely, if ever, shared before they unburdened me of my shame. Of my fear of being broken.
Isn’t that entirely what folklore is? The tradition of telling stories, generation to generation, via word of mouth to share wisdom. Stories that enable us to see ourselves. And debunk nonsense (in this case, popular culture’s representation of when we’re meant to have sex, what it’s meant to look like and how we’re meant to feel).
Often, folklore deals with stories of origins and beginnings like first creations, first meetings, even cultural firsts that get passed down through the ages as tradition. These stories help us to make sense of how we unfold: they teach us lessons, guide us, and warn us.
I’m obsessed with firsts. I’m drawn to that tension that holds the fine balance between fear and a leap of faith. That (maybe not so) quiet unknown before something becomes familiar, habitual. And then the lessons we learn from them. In my mind, ‘firsts’ hum at the same frequency as the old folklores.
When I talk about first, I don’t just mean the stories of first sexual encounters — although I love those too of course — but also the first sex after having a child. Or the first orgasm post chemotherapy. Or a first date after divorce. Or the first time initiating after a miscarriage. Or the first time kissing a partner after they cheated. Or the first time cheating. Or that first time exploring with a woman after being with men forever. Or vice versa. Or the first time exploring a new kink. Or the first time watching porn. Or the first time going to therapy for over reliance on porn. Or the first time at a sex party. And all the other firsts in between.
I want to tell those stories — our own folklore. And I need your help:
I’m looking for your stories to tell for a new series.
I’d love for you to share your ‘first’ with me (anonymously!) — whatever ‘first’ conjures up for you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t question whether it’s unique enough (it’s your story, and that’s as unique as it needs to be).
What’s your first?
Let me know here. The form is completely anonymous (unless you choose to add your email so I can send you a ‘thank you’ note). Don’t censor yourself: as diaspora, we often get metaphors or platitudes when it comes to stories about love and sex, but I crave depth, detail, emotion and articulation. And, of course, the laughter and giggles — taking it too seriously can do as much of a disservice as not taking it seriously enough, in my humble opinion.
