Words by: Shabnam Sidhu

“How can a body be safe when it’s only a body? How can we expect that no stranger will be tempted to torch an empty house?” (Lilian Fishman, Acts of Service)

I waited twenty-two years to do the thing… and like most people who’ve not done the thing, I placed it on a pedestal and worshipped it. The idea of doing the thing consumed my thoughts erratically. I wildly fantasised about it — creating idealistic narratives about participating in it with just about anyone, anywhere, at any time of day.

My peers spoke at length about how they had done the thing as teenagers and were now doing it like it was a normal and pleasurable way of living. I yearned to do it, to fill the void my thoughts had created about it in my head.

Part of me could not bring myself to do the thing unless it was with someone I loved. I wanted to feel like I had found something, and that there would be a sense of ease, happiness, and even humour in doing it. The other part of me just wanted to get it over with. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted. I knew I had to face it in whatever circumstance it presented itself — this would be the only way I could figure out why I craved it and whether it was worthwhile.

One day, on a random Thursday, at 4pm, I did the thing.

I had sex with the first man who thought I was pretty and desired me in a way I’d never felt before. In retrospect, the way I thought about him wasn’t actually the way he was. It was explicitly obvious to everyone else, but me, that he fancied what I was rather than who I was. His craving of what was so obvious about me — my body — lured me into what would be the most brutal yet transformative experience of my physical and mental self.

Having taken a long time to work up to it, due to my insecurities and anxieties around sex, the convenience of it happening on a whim felt very transactional. As it happened, I couldn’t help but think how fleeting pleasure is. Pleasure was quickly replaced by a wave of sadness. As it ended, I grieved everything but the sex itself. The act didn’t feel life-changing physically, but it did emotionally. I mourned the irreplaceable loss of innocence and the inherent impermanence of my relationship with the person I had sex with.

It shouldn’t have hurt me in the way it did as the choice was mine. Instead, it was knowing that I did not have the experience I had dreamt about that felt like I had given up a part of myself to someone who did not deserve to witness me at my most vulnerable. It dawned upon me that it wasn’t sex I had fantasised about all this time. It was the desire to be admired beyond my physicality, to be lusted for emotionally, and to be cared for incessantly even after the act was over.

I know my thoughts are limited to my own experience, but when they say having sex for the first time
is anything but life-changing, I’d disagree. Doing the thing did not change me physically but the brief intimacy I shared with someone is what my body remembers. The feeling of lust, desire or even love that led up to having sex, triggered a rush of oxytocin to my brain that enabled me to put aside rational thought and trust whatever was happening in the moment.

I believe my experience of having sex for the first time, and the initial feeling of regret afterwards, was due to the belief that it was meant to be a memory I had to cherish forever. As time went on, I’ve come to realise that just like most experiences people go through for the first time, having sex is just one of many. Whilst my initial inquiry into sex was messy and emotional, it taught me something invaluable: I want to be desired for what is deeper than the superficial.