Sex for Fun

The gift of post-marital intimacy

Photo by Kaspars Grinvalds

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My daughter was 10 years old when she asked me The Question. “What is sex?” she wanted to know.

I’d been planning for this moment for quite some time. Despite the involuntary knot of dread that was hardening in my stomach, I was glad it had arrived because I would far rather answer The Question than have to initiate The Talk.

Unfortunately, I was also on my lunch break and would have to descend to my downstairs office for a meeting within the next five or 10 minutes. I’d give the short answer now, I told myself, and continue The Talk another time.

“There are lots of different kinds of sex,” I began. “Mostly, it means when people touch each other romantically in ways that feel good. A woman can have sex with another woman, a man with another man, or a woman with a man.”

My daughter scrunched up her nose but waited for me to continue. “Mostly people have sex because it feels good, but when a woman has sex with a man, that’s also how a baby can get made.”

“OK,” my daughter said, “but what is it? How does it work?”

“Again, there are lots of different kinds,” I said, “but for a baby to get made, a man, with the woman’s consent, puts his penis inside her vagina.¹ He releases something called ‘sperm’ that travel into the woman’s body to fertilize her egg so the fetus can start to form.”

I added, “But like I said, people mostly have sex for fun, not to make babies, and there are lots of other ways to do it.”

The crinkle between my daughter’s eyebrows deepened with every word I spoke. “EWWW,” she said. “That’s so GROSS.”

GROSS was exactly my reaction when a friend first explained sex to me during recess. I’d been around the same age as my daughter. The explanation my friend gave me was more concise: A man lies on top of a woman, puts his penis in her vagina, “humps” her, and then a baby starts to grow.

I’m sure I wasn’t the first, nor the last, child to calculate that my parents had engaged in sex on exactly two occasions — once for me and once for my sister. And in my book, two occasions were two occasions too many.

//

I never had The Talk with my parents. When I think back on my adolescent sex education, three memories immediately come to mind:

1. In sixth grade, I learned about condoms by attempting to put one on a banana. It was a big supermarket banana, mind you, which Google tells me is typically 7–8 inches long. This did nothing to quell my unease about sex. I figured out how to put on the condom just fine, but I couldn’t, in my wildest imagination, visualize this latex-sheathed monstrosity going up my vagina. I’m quite sure those hefty bananas also raised lots of questions for the boys in my class.

2. In seventh grade, a guest speaker came to talk to us about AIDS. She’d had unprotected sex at age 14, then tested HIV+. I liked her, and I spent subsequent years haunted by the knowledge that she was either dying or dead.

3. In eighth grade, I saw a slideshow of various genitals ridden with various STDs. At that point in my life, the only image I’d ever seen of a penis — beyond fleeting glimpses of my father’s on his way to and from the shower — was an illustration in a biology textbook. That means the first close-up photographs of penises I ever saw were nothing short of horrific — swollen, red, ridden with warts and sores.

This all only solidified my narrow view of sex as a repulsive and somewhat shameful activity that is done to a woman. Thanks to the condom-bananas, I was aware from a younger age that people had sex when they didn’t want to make babies, but no one ever told me why. No one really explained what it felt like or how it was related to my own nascent urges, which I was beginning to feel but could not name.

If it weren’t for Hollywood, I might have reached adulthood without ever realizing that a woman could be on top. And I learned more about female orgasms from When Harry Met Sally than anything I was taught in school. According to my biology textbook, women had vaginas and uteruses, yes, but I have no recollection of any teacher, even once, mentioning the clitoris.

A man’s orgasm, I learned, is the ultimate goal of sexual activity, vital to the continuation of the human species. A woman’s orgasm is a “nice to have” — maybe it happens, maybe it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t, we just learn how to fake it like Sally. No one will be the wiser.

Because of the narrow focus on procreation, sex was all about the penis going inside the vagina. The only allusion to oral sex was in the context of dental dams, which I’ve never once heard mentioned since. And masturbation? Strictly for boys — a way to relieve their balls of semen.

Even in my hometown of San Francisco, the city at the forefront of ​​the LGBTQ+ equal rights movement, I learned nothing in the classroom about sex between women or sex between men. The only vague reference to gay sex in the early ’90s, when I came of age, was in the context of AIDS. Whatever gay sex was, it was apparently more dangerous. But I had better watch out, too. Safe sex wasn’t just a matter of avoiding genital warts; it was a matter of life and death.

//

I spent most of high school feeling both terrified of sex and also feeling like it was something I had to do, a necessary rite of passage. Whenever a boy expressed any sort of physical or romantic interest in me, I felt caught between the urge to fling myself on him and run away as fast as my legs would carry me. Usually, the latter urge prevailed.

I didn’t actually have the traditional “penis in vagina sex” that I’d been conditioned to both fear and crave until the ripe old age of 20 — which was embarrassingly late, in my book. By then, I just wanted to get it over with. Pleasure wasn’t the point.

Soon after, when I entered what would become my first long-term relationship, I learned that I could have a tidy, satisfactory orgasm by straddling my boyfriend (thank you, Hollywood), and that was what I proceeded to do for the next 3.5 years.

I also gave plenty of unreciprocated head. To be fair, I didn’t request reciprocation. The unintended consequence of being one of those rare women who could climax via penetration was that I didn’t feel particularly motivated to explore other forms of sex, and none of my partners seemed to mind.

The mutual physical chemistry between me and the man who would become my husband was apparent from the start. For a while, sex became more interesting.

As our relationship progressed, the usual challenges presented themselves. When we moved in together, things started to feel a bit more routine. When we got married, I found sex as a wife to be less exciting than sex as a girlfriend.

Then there was that strange window of time during which I went off birth control, and sex became the thing that I actually learned about in school — a means of procreation. Luckily for me, that window was quite brief, not mired in mounting anxiety and mandated humping during peak ovulation times.

But little did I know that my relationship with sex would be fundamentally altered for many years to come. I never felt the heightened libido that some women feel during pregnancy; instead, my body seemed to be preparing me for a different form of sensuality — the eros of early motherhood.

Much like sex, pregnancy and motherhood reminded me I was an animal at heart, with animal instincts and urges. During childbirth, I leaned into the pain with raw, guttural howls I didn’t know I was capable of producing. Then there were the very real physical endeavors of grooming, feeding, and protecting this tiny human I had grown inside of me. Tucking my nipple between her eager lips, washing her chubby body, brushing her silky hair, cuddling with her at night, hugging her through tears.

I felt fully embodied, but I felt far from sexy. When I lay down in bed at night, the last things I wanted were more fluids and more groping hands. But I acquiesced as often as I felt it was necessary to meet the Good Wife criteria. My doctor had pronounced me physically ready to resume sex at six weeks after birth, even though it was pretty much the last thing on my mind. But it seemed important to the medical establishment that I get cleared. Far more important than, say, my mental or emotional health.

Baby #2 did nothing to improve my appetite for sex. Now there were three people competing for my body. Fifteen months after the birth of our second child, my husband became convinced I was cheating on him. Nothing else could explain my lack of interest in having sex with him.

I remember laughing somewhat maniacally at his accusation. When, I asked, would I be having this supposed affair? Was I sneaking out of the house between middle-of-the-night feedings? Was I meeting this mystery man at the park on my morning run and fucking him behind a tree? At the back of the bus while commuting to work? In the bathroom during Saturday story time at the library? The notion that I had even an ounce of emotional or physical energy to engage in an affair was so absurd that I realized, suddenly, how little my husband was paying attention. How alone I was. How it was possible to be physically present with someone who didn’t see or understand me.

But I couldn’t neglect his needs now, could I? I took on Operation Revive Libido like a project manager, finally reaching the point where the thought of sex didn’t fill me dread, and I could occasionally work my way to an orgasm. Still, I struggled to feel fully present. Was that the wail of a child? Were those footsteps pattering toward our bedroom? Could they hear us?

It wasn’t just people competing for my body, but also my attention. I couldn’t turn my mind off. I came to resent that my husband seemed entirely unconcerned with the children in neighboring bedrooms. He could not only snore through their nighttime whimpers and rustles, but orgasm through them as well.

I was learning that sex in marriage, particularly a marriage with children, becomes something else entirely. It carries the weight of simmering grievances, resigned duties, misaligned expectations.

We tried scheduling sex (Monday and Friday) and allowing me transition time between the chaos of mom life and the quiet of the bedroom. Tease me all you want, but scheduled sex is a lot more fun than it sounds. Instead of a constant question mark hovering over our bed, blurred by a vague sense of dread, sex became something to anticipate (sometimes even look forward to), and I had the space to make the necessary mental and physical preparations.

I managed to enjoy myself more in the moment, but at the end of the day, sex still felt like one more to-do in a world that had become a constant onslaught of to-dos. I could easily go without it, and I couldn’t deny the sense of relief I felt when “date night” was over and I could finally go to sleep. I had fulfilled my wifely duties and gotten mine while I was at it. I could cross it off the list.

//

In the bedroom, I was quite sure we were doing better than most married couples I knew. But outside of the bedroom, things were getting progressively worse. It took a lot of dissociation to separate the tender, vulnerable man in bed from the man who skulked around the rest of the house, holding us hostage with his frustration and mounting rage.

Thanks to our schedule, I know the last time I had sex with my now ex-husband was April 19, 2024. I remember no details. I do remember that the next night, he puffed up his chest, got in my face, and spat out, “Bitch,” before leaving at midnight to drive 1.5 hours to an apartment he was renting near his new job.

He returned on Monday like nothing had happened, sitting on the porch while I worked and chatting with the neighbors. I made dinner, which the kids and I ate. I was furious and grateful that he was still on the porch. Furious because, as usual, I was left to attend to the kids after a full day of work, and grateful because I wanted nothing to do with him.

At 7:04 p.m., he texted me: Are we still on for date night?

I texted back: I’m not in a good headspace for that.

He texted: Me either, but I’m willing to make the effort.

I texted back: There is no amount of effort that would make me feel desirable. There’s pasta on the stove if you want it.

I slept on the couch. The next morning, I asked for a separation.

For the ensuing 20 months, I was hardly touched, and I hardly minded. My son, who for years had been cuddly-bording-on-clingy, turned nine a few months after the separation, and as if on cue, entered the Perfunctory Side Hug phase of childhood. My adolescent daughter had already been evading my touch for years.

I had flashes of nostalgia here and there, but for the most part, I enjoyed just feeling safe, present, and autonomous in my own body. Both my body and my bed belonged to me, and me alone. At night, I sprawled across it diagonally, letting myself take up space.

We got two kittens, who yowled and scratched outside my bedroom door. I bought earplugs. I had no plans to share my bed with anyone.

It was a relief to cross sex off the to-do list once and for all. It was one less thing. One less thing owed, one less wifely duty consuming my energy and time. I bought a new vibrator, but didn’t feel inspired to use it. I turned 44, then 45, occasionally wondering if my sexual peak had passed me by when I was knee-deep in diapers and snot, but not really caring one way or the other.

About six weeks after my 45th birthday, I met a man for a drink, and quite suddenly, my body remembered. Remembered what it felt like to yearn for someone else’s touch. We hugged briefly at the end of the night, and the next morning, he flew back across the country to the East Coast, where he lives.

My body, however, continued to yearn. The intensity of it was almost frightening. I unpacked my not-so-new but still unused vibrator from the box and started to play. I was nervous, at first. It had been so long since I’d charted the course of my own pleasures and desires. I wasn’t quite sure where to go, or if I’d get lost on the way.

I needn’t have worried. My body was ready; all I had to do was listen.

I was even more nervous when I met up over Christmas with the man who had reignited all this longing. We had been texting daily since we’d met up for a drink, and I was feeling like a swooning, teenage version of myself, which was both highly irritating and immensely fun. But unlike my teenage self, I was, day by day, becoming more secure in my own skin — crow’s feet, neck wattle, thigh dimples and all. I was owning my body, prioritizing my needs. I actually knew where my clitoris was, no thanks to my high school biology textbook, and I was learning what it wanted.

Years ago, when I listened to Esther Perel’s widely acclaimed book, Mating in Captivity, I heard her refer to sex as a form of play. It struck me as a revelation. It had been so long since I’d experienced sex unburdened by the nagging weight of tedious adult responsibilities and conflicting social expectations.

Now, I was ready to play. But yes, I was nervous, too. It had been over 20 months since a man had touched me, and over 20 years since I’d been touched by any man who wasn’t, or wouldn’t become, my husband. We talked a lot before we touched, and then we talked some more.

This eros was entirely different from the eros of early motherhood, but it had that same animal quality of existing fully in my own body and being fully present with another body. There were new smells and tastes and shapes to learn, which felt daunting at first. I worried a bit about my smells and tastes and shapes, and how they compared to others in his past. But one by one, the worries slipped away, and I let my animal instincts take charge. The demands of all my other life roles became pleasantly blurred, receding to the edges of my mind.

Sex for fun. Three months and one meet-up later, it still feels like a revelation.

We live in a world that simultaneously worships sex and still shames women for wanting it. A world that’s flooded with porn and still tethered to patriarchal notions of female purity. A world that has used, and continues to use, sex as a means of dominance and control, whether through violence, coercion, unwanted pregnancy, or all of the above. A world in which doctors care more about a new mother’s ability to physically please her husband than to attend to her own needs. A world in which even well-meaning rhetoric around “keeping the spark alive” in marriage makes so many women feel pressured, less than, or just plain wrong.

What a gift, to find myself in this chapter of my life, a chapter I didn’t even know was awaiting me. A chapter, in fact, that I actively resisted because everyone knows that divorced, middle-aged women are sad, lonely, discarded, washed-up creatures. A chapter in which sex is no longer about proving anything, or completing some necessary rite of passage, or fulfilling a socially prescribed role, or unilaterally pleasing someone else. A chapter in which sex is just about mutual connection and pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

For years, so much ado has been made about sex before marriage. But it’s sex after marriage that more of us should be talking about.

//

Last week, my daughter found my vibrator. It gets a lot of use these days; I keep it stashed under my pillow so I have it at the ready.

She asked me what it was. I was a little embarrassed, yes, then annoyed with myself for feeling embarrassed, for that deep-seated, socially-instilled shame that I’ll never be able to fully shake.

I told her it was a vibrator and asked if she knew what a vibrator was. She said yes, and I told her I’d be happy to answer any questions she had. I wanted to say more, but I could sense from her stiffening body and reddening cheeks that now might not be the time for a conversation with mom about masturbation. Alas, it so rarely is.

I truly wish I’d talked about sex with both my kids before the age of 10, before they came to associate it with embarrassment and shame. Not in the form of stilted Sex Talks but simply as a casual topic of conversation, as something humans do that is as natural as eating or pooping.

As a society, we’ve gotten better at being open about sex, but the education our kids get from school, Hollywood, and the Internet remains highly problematic — and in many ways, even more so than the education I received during my blissful pre-Internet childhood.

At the end of the day, mom can only do so much. At the end of the day, the best we can do is keep talking, or start talking, about sex for fun. Not by downplaying its inherent risks and social baggage, but by elevating what sex can and should be at its best. An adventure rooted in mutual trust and consent, a means of deepening an intimate connection, an exploration of bodies and natural human desires.

Even better if we can not just talk more about sex for fun, but have more sex for fun along the way.

1. While debriefing with my sister, who teaches sex ed to fifth-graders, she suggested a small but meaningful edit. Instead of saying, “The man puts his penis inside the woman’s vagina,” we should try saying, “The woman puts the man’s penis inside her vagina.” Brilliant!