I was having lunch a few months ago with a good friend/co-worker (female) and two former colleagues-turned-friends (male) when a curious thing happened. None of us had previously been part of a cloister or lived particularly sheltered lives – we were trial lawyers after all. But despite the collective decades of debaucherous experience sitting around the table, only one of us knew what a “spit roast” was. I’m sure there’s no suspense here as to the identity of said person. So after I explained the concept (and the ever popular variation known as the “Eiffel Tower”), I couldn’t help but wonder how I came to be not only so well-versed, but so unabashedly, unapologetically open about such topics. I’m neither an actor in nor a producer or director of pornography. I don’t write for Penthouse, or operate a phonesex line. I didn’t grow up in a frat house of older brothers, and I’ve been in an actual frat house twice in my 46 years.
And because I know you’re all wondering, I didn’t learn the term by doing (so far). Ahem…yet somehow, I was the table’s Cliff Claven of sexual jargon. My lunch companions eventually redeemed themselves by tossing their quasi-degenerate hats in the ring with terms like like “Rusty Trumbone” and “Blumpkin” and much laughter ensued.
But it left me pondering where my comfort level with all things titalating comes from. As early as I can remember, I was a sexually inquisitive creature. I did all the things that kids usually do (at least I think) – played doctor, made out with my female neighbor, experimented with my own body, experimented with my own body with my female neighbor. Ya know, just normal things…right?
Was it genetic? While I undoubtedly inherited my potty mouth from my grandmother, I’m beyond confident that our oral similarities stopped there. Generationally speaking, while I didn’t come of age in the 1950’s, archaic notions of “appropriate” behaviors for young women, particularly with sexuality, certainly were in no short supply when I was growing up (or in 2018, actually). Despite a decade plus of Catholic school haranguing, I felt no compunction to save myself for marriage. I’ve never embraced the notion that what was good for the goose was not just as good for the gander. If the goose can do it then fuck if I couldn’t. I also have never lived by any dating “rules.” If I want to sleep with a guy on the first or second date so I don’t waste my time liking someone who turns out to be a sexual underachiever, I do so freely, without concern for anyone’s prudish opinions.
As is probably obvious, I’ve been told more than a few times, mostly by men, that I am unique in both my views on and, appetite for, sex – a unicorn, if you will. And I’ve had enough down-and-dirty conversations with my girlfriends over the years to know this is pretty rare.
But why? Why would I rather get laid than get a mani/pedi? How many women are chronically late because they’re busy taking care of their business, or pulling over on the way to work to watch a “friend” take care of his? Is there something different about me physiologically that makes me this way? Is it hormone levels, my DNA?
So. Many. Questions.
I decided this topic was far too important to discuss without some data, so I conducted some research. Turns out there’s a term for women like me: “highly sexed.” Not that this is some “condition” in the DSM-5, though I’m sure there are plenty of slut-shamers who probably think it should be. But it is, in fact, a real term used to describe women who share certain, similar traits. A few articles and some fun blogs later, and I now feel I can speak more authoritively on the subject. Below are some common traits of the highly sexed woman; let’s see how I stack up:
1. She wants sex very often.
One study classified high sexed women as those who had 6 or more solo and/or partnered orgasms in one week.
Ok, check plus…
2. She is very easily turned on.
I needed a cold shower just from thinking about writing this post.
3. She turns almost every conversation into a sexual one.
I am the (self-proclaimed) queen of sexual innuendo and double entendres.
4. She is sexually adventerous.
Daytime turnpike and dressing room sex might qualify here. (A little more than 20 questions, Part 1)
5. She thinks about sex all the time.
You’re gonna have to give me a minute.
Oh hey. I’m back.
6. Almost nothing is taboo or off-limits for her.
I have two hard limits. If you’re lucky, you’ll get the chance to figure out which ones aren’t those two.
7. She knows there’s a difference between sex and love.
A HUGE one.
That’s what she said.
See #2 above.
8. She masturbates frequently.
9. She stopped counting sexual partners.
I’m bad at math so…
10. Men don’t know how to deal with her.
I think this one is pretty fucking self-explanatory.
Once again, I’m no scientist but me thinks this is pretty clear empirical evidence that I am, in fact, worthy of the “highly sexed” title. It surely answers the questions that arose after that lunch a few months back. Sex is an insanely large part of my life. Always has been and always will be. It helps clarify some of the not-so-stellar choices I’ve made while trying to quell those urges at various times in my life. (Floats like a butterfly, Fucks like a bee) I think it also provides some insight into why I get along better with men than woman. And I definitely feel better knowing there are women out there who, like me, don’t give a fuck about societal norms, or gender roles or stereotypes or the Judgy McJudgesons of the world when it comes to gettin’ some. It also (hopefully) sheds some light on why I like looking at penises. (A Dick Pic P.S.A. ) And it most assuredly highlights yet another reason why relationships are my nemesis. The struggle is real, friends.
So, in summation, I am hard-wired as a highly sexed woman and require lots of frequent, amazing sex with myself AND with others. Woe is me…
Now if you will excuse me, I have some weekly statistics to update.