Woman to woman: more or less sex

More or Less

by Kyle Bower

I’m never asked about my sexual history. Actually, as I prepped to write this, I thought even my gyno stopped asking me years ago!

Is it the ring on my left hand? Maybe.

Age? Could be.

The fact I gave birth. Possibly.

Despite the reason, the reality is that I haven’t discussed my sexual history in years. 

I’ve given a lot of thought to it and considered the varied sexual pasts of those around me — not in any great detail, that’s just awkward. But as a rough tally, the promiscuous group has it by a landslide!

So, what’s the norm here and does it matter? Turns out the answer is, “well it depends.”

A quick Google search shows the average number of sexual partners fluctuates based on gender, religion, country of origin, sexual orientation, etc. Perceptions of sex also skew numbers — there are the over-reporters and the under-reporters.

If I’m completely honest I would consider myself a part of the under-reporter group. First, because I don’t think it’s anyone’s business and second because the only partner that matters is the one I’ve had for the past 13 years. 

But, when unpack my instinct to under-report, my “choice” to do so is really grounded in gender inequality. If my number was perceived too high I could face disapproval or scorn. Too low? A prude, child bride, or 40-year-old virgin. 

D. None of the above.

In my opinion, society has made it difficult for women to own their sexuality and need for intimacy. And I mean this in the most inclusive sense spanning from masturbation, sexual orientations, and across pornographic professions.

If we admit to liking and needing sexual stimulation then we inadvertently open ourselves up to the male fantasy, which many of us do not want to be a part of. 

Feeling sexy, acting sexy, talking sexy should be part of being a sexual being — a personal choice and not automatically assumed to be there for the male gaze. 

Less is more

By Katy Wise Greer

When I disclose to acquaintances that I’ve only had sex with one person, my admission is typically met with two types of eyes: inspecting, unconvinced squints or incredulous, unconvinced saucers. Mouths are nearly always at least a hair agape. I’ve been here before, so I usually take this opportunity to swig whatever brown liquor I’m holding and wait for the wordless shock to wear off and the questions to start. 

“You mean, ever?”

“Does that include oral?”

“Even during college?” 

“Were you a child bride?”

And I get it. There’s a degree of cognitive dissonance here. If you got to know me, you’d come to understand that I believe in having all the experiences, using all the words, and liberally, and living all the life. Restraint, constraint and a generally healthy sense of shame are not concepts I’ve ever felt beholden to, and it shows. Because of this laissez-faire joie de vivre*, people just assume that I’m, y’know… experienced. 

I can see how one might easily form this assumption. I’m self-assured, empowered and largely unencumbered by others’ expectations. I’m open in a lot of ways and to a lot of things, and have been that way for a long time. It’s a point of pride for me that I was the only one in Ms. Wigham’s seventh grade study hall who didn’t sign that ridiculous abstinence pledge card (“I’m 13! That’s too young to commit to this kind of decision!”). From the get-go, the conditions were ripe for me to be a Tinder-swipin’, prophylactic-totin’ woman of many gentleman suitors. 

But that’s not how my life unfolded. 

Here’s how it did: At the end of eighth grade I met a guy boy. He drove a Celica with subwoofers in the back and was very tall and listened to Silverchair and I was interested. I was also in a relationship… or as much as you can be at 14 years of age. A year later, the boy resurfaced, and this time I was sans boyfriend. 

TL;DR I dated him from then on, lost my virginity to him at 16, married him at 22, and we’re still together today. Two kids, a dog, a shared Netflix account – the whole shebang.

What can I say? I take my cue from George Jones… I’m a one-man woman. 

*There you have it. I’ve exhausted all my French.