I’ve always loved sex. I get to express myself in new, exciting ways — I can be slutty and silly, and I can play a confident, assertive character that I don’t always embody in my day-to-day life. That is, I did until about a year ago when my body started changing.
It was a good change — great, even — brought on by a combination of Lexapro and lessened anxiety. My quality of life increased by unmeasurable bounds. But it also means that I’m getting reacquainted with my physical self. What was once a tool for pleasure became a source of insecurity.
This was new for me. Of course, I had insecurities surrounding my figure in the past, just like most growing gals who discovered that their teenage body wasn’t in fact how they would look forever. But in bed, I was happy — actually, totally down — to be perceived, have the lights on, and bang in broad daylight or even under the fluorescent light of a shower. I went from being a single, spicy queen having uninhibited romps, to someone having reserved penetration with no desire for my body to be seen. So I turned off the lights. I kept my eyes shut. And I used the covers as camouflage.
As my confidence wavered, so did my enjoyment. I missed the kind of sex that made me feel empowered to give direction, the kind that made me chase after pleasure.
“How can I get back to that?” I asked my therapist. Her answer was plain and simple: Stop hiding. I took her sage advice the only way I know how, which is extremely literally, and decided to set out on a mission: For one whole month, I would exclusively have sex with the lights on. Here’s what I learned when I left the dark.
At First, I Was Majorly Anxious
As a self-proclaimed Woman In A Male Dominated Field, I tend to hope that a night out with a guy ends with sex. What can I say? I’m a horny gal seeking orgasms, not boyfriends. While this used to be thrilling, my mission to sleep around in overhead lighting (*shiver*) brought new nerves to first dates — or rather, first f*cks. I could no longer rely on mood lighting or blackout curtains to mask my insecurities.
On the third day of my quest, I journeyed to a mutual friend set-up that started and ended how many of my dates do: sipping on cocktails (mine was pink, his was gross) in a dimly lit bar, followed by boning on navy sheets. It was my first time navigating the lights-on conversation, and as we moved our makeout session into his bedroom, I decided to keep it vague. “Let’s leave them on,” I tried to say as sexily as possible. “I want to see every inch of you.”
He was tall and objectively gorgeous, and I hoped he would be as attracted to me as I was to him. Strapped into my Skims bodysuit with my makeup still matte, I felt sexy and put-together. But when it came time to strip down, I was hyper-aware that I was about to let it all hang out for him… and I was anxious AF. Would he notice how the shapewear had been sucking me in? Would he pick up on the stretch marks that painted my inner thighs? Would he be turned off by my streaky self-tan, which I had hastily applied as a last-ditch attempt at a confidence boost? With a big gulp, I climbed onto the bed.
Remember, he’s not fixated on your appearance. He’s just obsessed with being inside your vagina.
In preparation for this very moment, my therapist and I discussed some strategies: Focus on the sensations, not how your body looks. To stay present, try holding eye contact. Remember, he’s not fixated on your appearance. He’s just obsessed with being inside your vagina. (I came up with that last part, not my therapist.)
Thankfully, I was able to lock into the moment and let the spiraling thoughts fade away. At one point, I was so present that the only thing to jolt me out of my horny haze was a small bead of liquid that dropped to my forehead. “What was that?” I asked, genuinely confused. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbled. “That was my sweat.” We both laughed, and I instantly felt better — this slight moment of awkwardness reminded me of what I used to love about hooking up: silliness. Sometimes, it’s not that deep. Metaphorically speaking. Physically, well, here’s hoping.
Over the next month, I tried to remember that there are a lot of inherently unsexy things about sex. There’s going to be sweat and double chins and queefs galore. Trying to look perfect is a waste of time. And, TBH, not looking great is probably proof you’re getting railed real good, right?
Sex With My Sneaky Link Leveled Up
As an ultra-horny single girl, I rely heavily on my Sneaky Link — a goofy finance bro with whom I have nothing in common but enjoy booty-calling in times of need. Over a few months, he and I had developed something of a routine: in his pitch-black room (he’s a 26-year-old-boy, meaning he doesn’t own a lamp), we start in missionary, switch to doggy where he finishes, and then he’ll go down on me for approximately four minutes until I orgasm while descending into bedroom bliss.
Because we have that so down pat, I was a bit nervous to switch things up. But after I shared that I wanted to bring our shenanigans into the light, he was psyched. It lit a fire under him and that man got to work. Before I even had time to feel anxious about being butt naked, he bent me over in front of a full-length mirror. If it wasn’t already clear, that is not a part of our normal routine.
I let him see me, in more ways than one.
You can imagine my initial stress — I didn’t even want the lights on, let alone have to stare at myself in the mirror while we banged! But to my surprise, I was so turned on. And it wasn’t about my body or his or the angle or position — we were two naked bodies intertwined, and it looked hot.
The next time I came over, I received a saucy text before entering his building: “I want you undressed the second you walk in.” We hooked up on his couch in broad daylight. One thing was clear: My new mission turned formulaic fornication into scandalous sexscapades.
A Drunken One-Night Stand Got Romantic
Toward the end of my experiment, I got the biggest surprise of all: Feelings. For a man.
A night of flirting at a crowded sports bar proved fruitful, as I soon found myself bantering with a charming brunette. His answer didn’t disappoint when I asked the inevitable: “Do you want to go home with me?”
After awkwardly chugging water and taking turns going pee, we moved toward my bedroom. Maybe it was the liquid courage, or maybe it was the fact that my bodysuit was digging into my hips and I wanted it off ASAP, but I decided to be honest with this total stranger: “I’m only having sex with the lights on,” I said plainly. “I’ve been insecure with my body lately, and it’s a method I’m trying out to change that.”
“That’s cool,” he replied. “I’d love to f*ck you with the lights on. I think you’re beautiful.” It ended up being one of the most romantic, intimate bangs of my life. I wasn’t overthinking or over-calculating but instead felt safe enough to succumb to the moment — every imperfect second of it. (Yes, I did pass gas while we were spooning. No, I’m not ready to talk about it.) And it wasn’t just because the lights were on. It was because I let him see me, in more ways than one.
During sex, I’ve always felt like my confidence was my bargaining chip, the thing that made me desirable and fun to fool around with. But this experiment made it clear to me that vulnerability is equally attractive — it’s something that makes me hot, and also human. The month may have ended, but I’m not ready to turn the lights off just yet.
The post I Tried Having Sex With The Lights On For A Month appeared first on Bustle.
