Sunday is Andrew and my one year anniversary. Technically it’s the anniversary of our first date, but we don’t know when we entered coupledom, so we’ll honor 12/20 with fresh pasta and chicken in a cast iron skillet. You can read our story here.
I’m such a delusional romantic that for years, I believed in Special Occasion Sex (SOS). I thought anniversaries beckoned my most seductive self, whose lingerie, loose waves, and smoky eye could out-perform Viagra. I’d spend the day ravaged like a whorific little chew toy by my drooling, panting partner who just cannot believe I’m theirs.
The myth dies here.
When I was 16 years old, I socked away some cash from waitressing and Christmas to hit the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale. At this point in my life I’m chubby and insecure, perpetually dehydrated, yet somehow ambitious enough to gift my then-boyfriend a costume for our one year. I settled on a gauzy pink babydoll and matching thong. Derek’s 6’3 frame was sprawled across my twin bed when I asked him to “close his eyes.” He opens them to me awkwardly standing over him, clad in the discount lingerie, some prom-esque heeled sandals, and a *fucking tiara*????? His reaction was so flat and sexless, I might as well have been his sister. AND WHO COULD BLAME HIM? I collapsed into his arms, bawling about my body, and he soothed this low-budget porn princess through the night.
Cut to 2010ish. I’m Halloween shopping with my next boyfriend, C*dy. The Spirit Halloween employee has just asked if we are brother and sister, and so strengthens the incestuous undercurrent of my failed attempts at erotic orchestration. We head over to TJ Maxx where I daringly pick out some Baby Phat by Kimora Lee Simmons black bustier corset with garter straps—not for Halloween, I assure my ultraconservative partner, but for us. Wink. I have lost a considerable amount of weight. I’m like, 108 lbs and my breasts are up top, uh, two bee stings. When we go to “use” the outfit (like it’s a toy), it is completely ill-fitting. I can’t keep the garter straps attached to the thigh-highs and my boobs don’t fill the cups. My self-esteem is floundering, his cock is softening, and I wonder if there’s any good left in the world. We end, again, in tears. (Have I implicated myself as a sex-crier?)
I have been bamboozled by the allure of planned intimacy. How many times can one strategically sexify themselves in expensive lace and cleverly placed zippers with blind hope for arousal? I’m not going to blame impossible beauty standards, or how sex is portrayed in movies and porn, or any of these broken infrastructures for why I’ve given it the old college try so many times. The concept of mood-setting is tempting. Lingerie is exquisite. But the truth is I’m a sub girl in a dom world. Pseudo-dom me wants to set the scene, control the elements—be the kind of vixen who awaits his arrival in full leather with a whip. Sub me is trembling at the thought of it not working/me looking tiara-and-prom-heel level stupid so that I’m too removed from the moment to even get wet. Telling these stories helps me confront my fragility.
Different partners and sexual arrangements have liberated different versions of myself. But overall, my comfort in the bedroom relies on spontaneity. Every time I’ve disrupted the equilibrium for some manufactured fantasy, things have gone awry, feelings (mine) have been hurt. Only now as I approach yet another anniversary do I fully understand that there is no perfect ambiance or look, only perfect chemistry. And not only can my sexy not be forced, but if it even scratches effort’s surface, I am liable to implode.
Being myself is an act of seduction that has, alone, worked on all different types of people in beautiful, connective ways. As a naturally sexual person, half of what’s considered lingerie I’d wear with jeans to the grocery store. Under self-imposed pressure I regress into an awkward child who’s afraid to say “pussy” in bed.
Anniversaries are special because they’re a holiday all your own. A smiley face scribbled on the calendar saying I chose you the last 365 days and it’s made my life better. You don’t want it to be a day, but rather, a moment—because a moment is that one vague measurement of time that holds more weight than years. Good sex is how we suspend ourselves in a moment. I hope one day I can have good sex in La Perla, but Sunday will not be it.