When size matters
Now that I’ve passed from my raging 20s into my wiser 30s, I feel I am in a position to lovingly and laughingly analyse my behaviours towards sex in my prior decade. Hindsight can be a bitch but she also provides a decent amount of fuel for thought. In my early 20s, my friends and I mostly skimmed over the topic of sex but quite amazingly had the ability to determine the quality of one’s love making from just two short questions…
Girl A – ”So, did you do it?” asked really slowly, in low voice
Girl B – “Yes!” followed by slight shrinking into seat/hiding part of face with the foam atop a cappuccino
Girl A – “And…was it good?” again, slowly, in low voice
Girl B – “Yes, he was so big!” eyes bright and raised eyebrows. Both girls giddy, nodded in approval and agreed that based on this last Q&A, Girl B had indeed scored herself an out-of-this-world sex god and would marry him and have lots of sex and babies (and most of the time said god was described as looking like this…)
Now I must admit, I believe the anxiety levels inflated by questions of size are completely warranted in the following – the size of the chair that one sits in on a plane, the size of the oysters from the fish monger or the size of the champagne glass in which my champagne will be floating (I come from a long line of seasoned drinkers) – and for most of my 20s, I walked around wishing I had Xray vision so I could see through the clothes of prospective lovers and determine on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being best) what my bragging rights might be. But reflecting on my decade of sexual discovery (which has now caused my sexual recovery), my sex life was largely unsatisfying and I had my share of well-endowed men and those that had their shortcomings. But still, there was no zsa zsa zsu.
My wiser self now knows it was because I had sex ALL wrong. I was putting way too much emphasis on the size of the manhood coming at me. If my partner was on the smaller side then it was all his fault that things were crap (but still a 10, of course) and if he was large, I’d convince myself it was awesome (jackpot – 10!!!). But here’s the thing, I fit in with the majority of women who can’t orgasm purely from penetration so as lovely as the sausage in the bun may be, I am now more of a smorgasbord kinda gal (and I’m not referring to gangbangs). By far, my most memorable sexual experiences have been those that have not focused so much on genitals but on a more sensual, full body experience (think blindfolds, feathers, ice, cuffs, massagers, massages and prolonged ejaculation). I now like to think of the penis as the nuts on my sundae – they tie it all together but damn, that ice cream and chocolate sauce is divine.