I’ll never understand why there is an unavoidable attachment of guilt when it comes to women and sex. There’s only two states for a woman post-coitus: Euphoria and Guilt. Sometimes intertwined, sometimes estranged, but their presence is inevitable. The guilt always follows directly behind an instinctual hormonal high that swells from the groin through the entire body, demanding full attention as if it were a pegasus in a field of mice. Euphoria. Short lived, but certain. I wonder if it’s possible for a woman to separate the two. The female brain is a terrifying and exuberant place.
And I’m not talking about married sex. I’m not talking about the same sex you’ve had for four years with your reliable beau in missionary that last three minutes and forty-six seconds. I’m not talking about polite sex. I’m talking about dirty, nasty, “Fuck me harder,” “Pull my hair,” against a bathroom wall kind of sex. Mysterious sex. The kind of sex you can replay over and over in your head while you’re masturbating alone in your room at 3:00 am on a Wednesday night. That kind of sex. It’s always guilty sex.
I was raised by two insane and sexually open parents who traumatized me at a very young age resulting in my development into this wild and sexually confident woman. Every woman deserves the confidence it takes to have guilt-free, “Fuck me harder” sex. But sometimes it seems as a people and as a gender we are cursed. We’re doomed to welcome with open arms feelings of guilt and regret and to allow them to parade through our bodies, attacking the pleasure we deserve.
Having sex with a woman is an art, and it all begins in the brain.
