To Say No
By Erin Deborah Waks
I have a vivid memory of me at 18, lying in the bed of a guy I was really quite indifferent to, waiting to feel something. Anything. Nice guy, the my-type-on-paper sort. When he kissed me, I kissed him back. Willingly. Sort of. Perhaps ‘acceptingly’ is a better word.
When I told him it was my first time, he took an almost teacher-like role that made me feel so small, so patronised, so childlike. Was this how it was meant to feel? I didn’t feel unsafe, but I didn’t feel relaxed, either. Impatient, perhaps. And nervous. Watched. Vulnerable.
And then the condom broke and I snapped out of my reverie. This wasn’t how I wanted to lose my virginity; pressured by my well-meaning but problematic peers, desperate to just ‘get it over with’, and really not very turned on at all.
Somewhere along the way, I realised I was not saying yes because I wanted it to happen.
I was saying yes because I was carrying all the internal shame that comes from feeling like the only one of your circle of peers to have never had sex.
Because I figured, I’d got this far, may as well rip off the band aid. Get it over with. Stop making a big deal out of it.
Because I wasn’t really sure I could say no. Wasn’t really sure how.
My self-worth, and the vindication with which I protected myself from the out-of-body, horrible experience of sex I didn’t want was slowly etched away by the growing realisation that, if I hadn’t slept with anyone by now, there must be something wrong with me. Was I too fat, ugly, or highly strung? Was I unloveable? Or, worse, unfuckable?
People-pleasing comes in many forms, and for me this was one. I knew how rejected I’d feel if someone turned me down, and I abhorred the idea of making someone else feel that way.
But the fact is, when it comes to stripping down naked and sharing that level of intimacy, you’ve got to be a whole lot more selfish than that. Yes, turning someone down might hurt their feelings. But what’s worse, for me at least, is jumping into bed with someone when the idea of it feels like a chore, an item on a to-do list, or, worst of all, like something you should do. Must do.
Eventually, I reached an age where sex was so ‘normal’ that ‘everyone’ had done it and I realised waiting another year - or five - really made very little difference to this socially constructed ‘embarrassment’ (note the very intentional use of inverted commas, grammar-lovers). If I was to be the subject of derision, if most men were going to make me feel ashamed of my lack of experience, then I didn’t want any of them in my bed at all. Better to be single and sure of myself than vulnerable with someone who didn’t deserve my vulnerability.
So I decided never to put myself in that situation again. I decided to wait until I knew it was right. I had to believe that existed.
Sex only became good - well, possible - when I learnt to say no. And, incidentally, once I learnt how to say no, I started wanting to say yes a hell of a lot more.
