Was It Good for You, Too?

by Bestia Mortale

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At this lovely time of year, when sex is bursting into bloom all around us, it's worth remembering that sex is inherently subjective, not objective. What I mean is that a sexual experience is defined less by external objects and events than by the feelings of the participants. This may seem obvious, but all too often we assume a necessary causal relationship between external factors and our internal responses.

Big tits, for example, are a turn-on for many men, as are big dicks for many women. But is it the thing itself or is it the idea of the thing that actually causes the turn-on? In the case of big tits, the mere sight of them is sufficient to elicit the effect. A woman might argue that it's the sensation of a big, meaty dick inside her that turns her on -- but why then are fingers, hands, and various other insertable objects not equally or even more exciting?

Freudians might suggest that big appendages remind us of our parent's anatomy seen from a child's perspective, evoking early Oedipal lusts. More simply, we probably associate big physical sex markers with the idea of big sexiness. In either case, the point is that the causes of our arousal are internal, not external: It's all in the mind. I like to think of French writer Jean Cocteau, who is rumored to have proven this on more than one occasion by stripping off his clothes at a party, stretching naked on the floor and voyaging to orgasm without the slightest touch, by concentration alone.

Sexual experience is subjective in subtle and far-reaching ways, and the test of it should always be in how we feel during and afterwards, not in what we actually do. It is insecurity (and who doesn't have it?) that leads us to gauge our own or other people's sex lives by external standards. We sometimes assume that wild sex, sex with beautiful bodies, kinky sex, multiple orgasms, multiple partners, 10 orgasms a day, sex for hours and hours, is somehow better sex. Instead of asking how intense and satisfying it actually felt, we try to look for external signs of intensity and satisfaction.

So how intense and satisfying is it supposed to be? Am I missing out? Am I doing something wrong? Are other people having a better time? Or am I actually a champ at this?

Paradoxically, focusing on what you feel rather than on what you do frees you to experiment with the external things. It's hard to compete over feelings -- how can you possibly compare them? Instead of trying to prove something, you get to discover yourself, which is a journey without end. If being good at sex only requires feeling good about it, and if being a good lover only involves helping your partner feel good too, a lot of the social pressure around it disappears.

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