What is the best sex you’ve ever had?
Every time somebody asks me that question, I am tempted to respond with “Yellow.” Or, “Hat.” Because to me, those answers make about as much sense as the question does.
But I try my best to avoid sarcasm, and I can’t fault people for being curious, so typically I respond with, “Define your terms.”
You want to know about the best sex I’ve experienced? Define your terms.
First, you need to define ‘sex’. Odds are, I think about sex differently than you do. So you need to tell me, since you are the one asking, what you mean by ‘sex’. PIV? PIA? Oral? Self-stimulation? Toys? Mutual masturbation? Phone sex? Cam sex? What? Define your terms.
Then: What do you mean by ‘best’?
‘Best’ could mean any number of things. Do you want to know about the riskiest? The longest session? Greatest number of orgasms in the shortest period of time? The most emotionally connected? The most fun? The most unusual location? Least effort on my part? Most memorable cock? Or perhaps the biggest? Most athletic interlude? Most romantic? What? Tell me what you mean.
I’m by no means the most experienced woman on the planet, but I have lived long enough and explored my own body well enough and had enough sexual partners to have learned quite a bit about what I like. However, sometimes ‘the best sex’ is not about what I know I like. It’s about learning – sometimes learning what doesn’t work – and moving forward on a positive note. It’s about exploring new things – alone, with a partner(s), for my own pleasure or someone else’s – and finding joy in the process. It’s about owning my quirks, communicating my needs; it’s pushing boundaries and resisting stagnation, opening up to new ideas, taking someone inside of me and allowing them to do the same, emerging from S/He and Me to a version of our collective sexual selves that becomes an Us.
Is ‘the best sex’ about the pleasure? If so… Whose?
Perhaps, if it is about giving pleasure, I would say it was the time he presented himself to me, kneeling and warm and naked and willing, and I spanked him to (a completely unexpected – for both of us) orgasm in a matter of minutes. He thoroughly wrecked my new comforter and was both shocked and abashed at his response. But I was delighted. (And I never even took my clothes off.)
Is it about receiving pleasure? Perhaps, then, it was the time when – after already giving me more than one orgasm – he curled his fingers into my pussy, scissoring sure and strong against the counter-rhythm of my own fingers swirling over my clit, not stopping until – shaking and tearful – I rocked my hips against our mutual onslaught and came. Hard. Clutching at his body lined up against mine, turning my head into his shoulder as I shuddered while he shushed me softly through the aftershocks.
Sharing pleasure… Well, for me, that’s requisite to every sexual interaction. It pleases me greatly to give and to receive, and there is an element of receiving in the giving, even if it is indirect. I think I first learned about the concept of shared pleasure – though I didn’t have a name for it then – as a preteen. Exploring with my girlfriends and cousins – cautiously, trepidatiously (What if my brother walks in?!?) – how it all feels. Knowing, from trailing my fingers along their wet cotton panties, that the damp heat between my legs, caused by their kisses and adolescent exploratory caresses, was mutually experienced.
But are any of those things even ‘sex’? Let alone ‘the best’?
I have typically loosely defined ‘having sex’ as traditional penetrative intercourse. Everything else… Well, it’s definitely sexual activity. But is it, for the purposes of the question, ‘sex’?
That depends on who’s asking, I suppose.
Sex, no matter what form it takes, is often the most memorable when it’s not necessarily ‘sex’ – in the traditional form – at all.
Sure, sometimes it is a screaming orgasm, the memory of which still fans the flames of my imagination and fuels the fire I stoke with self-pleasure. Other times it is the wait, long and bittersweet, drawn out by distance and denial, that culminates in rasping-breath request granted by dizzying demand.
What about the time, in a room full of people, my husband made me cum – again – to the gasps and moans of an enthralled audience? Perhaps it was the time my lover, seated between my legs while I lay back in the buoying water of the bath, used his hands to work my body to a long, relaxed, rolling release – one that triggered his own, without my ever having touched him – that left us both smiling in half-conscious bliss. Or maybe it was when, in the middle of a phone call, aroused from the sound of his voice, I gave myself an orgasm to the soundtrack of my paramour’s coaxing words and my own unfettered moans, and when my breath returned to my lungs and I could focus once again on the conversation, he said, “God, I love to hear you cum.”
The Best Sex is not formulaic. It is not a recipe, it does not require any one specific ingredient.
It is all the sex I’ve had, and all the sex I haven’t. It is the choices I’ve made in the past, and the ones I will make in the future. It is the sex for which I am fully present, in the Now, that I will remember later and smile. Or cringe. Or puzzle over. Or fantasize about.
It is the shared looks, the whispers, the silence. The talks, before and after, about what we want, and where we go from here. It is shattered breaths and wracking sobs and full-belly laughter. It is joy and pain and firsts and lasts and all the in-betweens.
It is about what I know now, compared to what I knew then. It is what I will learn in the future, and how those building blocks will stack against the present. It is not one time, or one person, or one event. It is less than the sum and more than the total of all my experience.
That is the best sex.
And I hope to have a lot more of it.