Sex—it never seems to get any easier to talk about. Something that is just as uncomfortable, if not more so, is discussing and discovering your own sexuality; that’s something personal and intimate. You can talk about sex and remove yourself from the equation by discussing the logistics and physicality of the act: there’s this position and that position, and anatomically speaking this organ is inserted into an open orifice of the engaging party’s choosing. Sure, it’s still really awkward to talk, hear, read, or in my case write about, but it’s not nearly as scary as saying that X, Y, or Z turns you on, or that to really get off you need this or that to happen.

I suppose one could argue that the reason it’s such an intimidating topic is because it’s supposed to be and remain private information. No one wants nor needs the information you have to provide about your individual sexuality (except, perhaps your partners), and I suppose I’d have a hard time arguing that logic. However, isn’t our sexuality something we should be exploring and embracing, rather than shying away from? Shouldn’t we be able to talk about what we like and what we don’t like without feeling like dirtied, negligent children? I’m not saying that you need to broadcast what you have planned for the bedroom tomorrow evening, but shouldn’t you be able to address the topic without squirming in your seat if discussing it is necessary?

Last week I treated myself to a solo trip to a cabin for the weekend. I planned on relaxing, seeing the mountains, and getting some work done--- like writing this article. To unwind I began reading the Palahniuk novel Snuff. I’ll begin by stating that I enjoy Palahniuk’s writing, which is easy to read but contains some subject matter that may be a little difficult to digest. The dark humor and irony that his writing contains is challenging in a sense that doesn’t require a doctoral degree or a vocabulary the size of Texas to comprehend—for me, it’s the perfect material to read on vacation. So, Snuff is basically a novel about a porn star, Cassie, attempting to break a world record by engaging in physical activity with 600 men in one film. Obviously this novel contains a lot of sexual content. I mean, that’s basically the entire book, and to be honest it’s really difficult to read a highly graphic novel like that and not get a little turned on now and then. That’s when it hit me—I’m alone in a cabin for the entire weekend. I can do anything I want without anyone passing judgement! And that’s when I made the decision to buy my first vibrator.

I Googled the nearest sex shop (50 minutes away) and contemplated if it was worth it. I said, "Fuck it, it’s now or never! No one at the store will know me or ever see me again. I have no need to be embarrassed about anything." So I did it. I drove almost an hour to the mall with the sole purpose of buying myself a sex toy. I walked with a confidence that began to recede into apprehension into the store. Any shred of confidence that remained was out the door when I encountered the wall filled with butt plugs, vibrators, cock rings, lubricants, and various other sexual apparatuses. Not only was I embarrassed to be standing in front of this wall because I felt dirty and wrong, but because I realized how truly ignorant I was about sex.

Like, I know vaginas stretch, I mean a freaking baby is supposed to come out of there, but as I stared at that wall my eyes grew three sizes trying to figure out how the hell that dildo right there was supposed to ever be able to fit inside of me. Trying to figure out why that one over there is shaped like a dolphin, or why “the rabbits” that are supposed to stimulate the clitoris, look more like creepy antennae of scary, pervert insects looking to roam my genitalia, rather than cute little bunny ears meant to nuzzle me into a good time. I was mortified and terrified. It took everything in me not to run out of the door screaming when the associate asked if I was finding everything ok. Hiding my face and trying to make sure my voice didn’t crack I assured the gentleman I was doing fine. I slowly made a loop around the store and bailed, no purchases made. I spent another hour in that mall contemplating going back and just doing it already. Trying to convince myself I had nothing to be ashamed of. I even walked that way a few more times before my stomach convinced me it wasn’t worth the anxiety. When I got back to the cabin I realized, even if I had bought myself a sex toy, I don’t think I’d ever be confident enough to actually use it. I’d be stuck with a $30-$50 silicone apparatus that would just collect dust under my bed, holding the potential to mortify and incriminate me if anyone discovered my dirty little secret.

That story was brutal to write and admit, and I’m sure it wasn’t entirely easy to read either, but that’s my point. Why couldn’t I get myself to buy anything? Why should I be embarrassed? Is it because of my history of sexual abuse that’s damaged me past the point of being able to admit that I have sexual needs? Is it the double standard that society places on women and their sexuality that instills that any woman who enjoys sex is a dirty whore? Is it the lack of education provided about sex throughout your school years?

Maybe society should spend less time demonizing anyone who engages in intercourse without the intention of procreation and should spend a little more time on building self-esteem about the most intimate parts of ourselves. Our sexuality isn’t something that we should be ashamed of. I shouldn’t be scared to talk to my doctor about concerns about my birth control, and I shouldn’t be afraid to stand up for myself when they insist on a method that I don’t agree with. I shouldn’t feel dirty and sleazy when I masturbate, my orgasms followed with crippling guilt. I shouldn’t be too afraid to let my significant other know what I want and what I like. I shouldn’t be afraid to initiate; I’ve heard from many guys that they hate always being the ones to initiate, so what's holding me back from admitting when I'm turned on? Many, if not all, of my relationships contained serious problems regarding my insecurity and unwillingness to be an active participant in the bedroom, not because I didn’t want to, but because I was too scared to.

So there it is, laid out bare-ass naked. Now how can we learn to embrace the vulnerability of our sexuality and accept that it’s a part of ourselves?