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“Ha. I know what you’re thinking. How do I know everything will be okay?” he asks.
“It’s okay, Ethan. I believe things will work out,” I say with fake confidence.
But really, if Ethan the grump is feeling positive about something, how can I lose?
* * *
59
AVA
Glisten Magazine
Love and Sex by Ava Sterling
Final Draft, Anniversary issue
My dear reader:
As you know, this isGlisten’sanniversary issue, and each of our lovely columnists is writing about her first time experiencing something… important. In her infinite wisdom, my editor and general kick-ass girl boss decided I should write about my first… O.
Yes, you heard that right. My first orgasm. The first time the earth moved, I saw stars, got off, and blew my load (wait, that one is for dudes).
You'd think that asGlisten’sresident sexpert, I'd have the bedroom acumen of Cleopatra mixed with the seductive prowess of Mata Hari, and all the O's that come with it. Boy, was I leading everyone down a rose-tinted path... and by everyone, I mean YOU, my dedicated reader.
I generally pride myself on my honesty, although there’s been one teensy secret your girl has been hiding behind her feathered quill. But I’m now ready to share it with you… so please brace yourself.
Until recently, I’d never experienced myvery own ‘Big O.’ That's right. I, Ava, the gal you trust with all your saucy dilemmas, have been orgasmically challenged since, well… the beginning.
I know what you're thinking: ‘Wait, what? Ava? THE Ava? Miss10 Tips to Turn Up the HeatAva?’ Indeed, it's shocking even to my very own core. I've penned sultry tales of passion and provided advice on subjects I've mostly—mastered. But the earth-shattering finale? Well, that was more fiction than fact.
If you are still with me, and can find it in your heart to forgive rather than hate, I have more to share.
You might be wondering, why confess now? Well, darlings, as I tip-tapped away, crafting my witty anniversary issue column about my ‘first time’, my fingers froze. Who was I writing for? A pretend world where everything is perfect, nothing ever goes wrong, and every zesty session we have with a lover ends in fireworks? I don’t know about you, but that’s not the world I live in, nor do the myriad of women who, like me, have yet to join the O-Club. Faking it in bed is one thing, but faking it to you? My trusty readers?
I was wrong to do so. I apologize.
Don’t cry for me. I've had delightful romps in the haystacks of life. My escapades have ranged from ‘Oops, I knocked over the lamp’ to ‘Is it in yet?’ But when it came to that cinematic climax, the crescendo, the fireworks finale, nada, zilch, zippo. Your girl came up emptier than a banker’s heart.
And I know bankers’ hearts. I used to go out with one named Bran. But I’ve told you all about that jerk. You know, the one with the tiny penis.
You probably wonder, ‘Ava, how did you manage to keep this massive secret under wraps?’ Simple. I lied. Lied my ass off. I was a fraud, a faker, a flunky. A pretender of the worst degree. When girlfriends would dive into details about their seismic proficiencies, I'd contribute with anecdotes about hilarious bedroom blunders or my inexplicable ability to attract men who wore socks in bed (sad but true).
But no more.
The shame I felt was, in hindsight, totally unwarranted. In our hyper-sexualized society, there's this underlying pressure for women to always be in a state of rapturous ecstasy, as if our value is measured by the decibels of our moans. The thought of being ‘less than’ or ‘broken’ played on repeat in my head.
You're probably dying to know how I finally joined the ranks of the O-enlightened. Was it a tantric yoga session? A steamy romance with a Spanish matador? A quiet moment with one of the many vibrators manufacturers send me to try out and recommend? Alas, it was none of those. It was an evening with someone I’ve come to care about very much, a man outstanding on many levels, not least of which is treating me to all the Big Os I can take.
My body, contrary to my suspicion, wasn't some stubborn mule refusing to cross the finish line. Instead, it was a mystery I hadn't quite mastered. And master it I did... with patience, no expectations, and (ironically) putting all the advice I'd given you lovely folks into practice.
So why this confession? Believe it or not, I'm not here to splash my intimate details like a Cosmo cocktail over a bar. I’m doing it for every woman who's felt the weight of unmet expectations, the pinch of societal norms, or the shame of not quite ‘getting there.’
I see you.
I am you.
I'm hoping that by sharing my story, you'll feel less inclined to hide or pretend. Whether it's orgasms, body image, or any other intimate detail, you owe it to yourself to embrace your truth and journey. Remember, every woman's path is unique. And if your path has a few detours, well, isn't that what makes the journey interesting?
