BRYONY GORDON: I’m finally having the best sex of my life after decades of disappointment. This is what every woman unsatisfied in the bedroom - and every complacent husband - needs to know
The first time I had a one-night stand, it was by accident.
Though my distant 20s were jam-packed with proclamations that I was a liberated woman who enjoyed casual sex just as much as the next bloke, I’d planned something quite, quite different when I went on my date with Josh.
And what I’d planned was: marriage. Or, at the very least, a relationship. Instead, I found myself in a dingy bar being groped as my feet squelched on the beer-sodden floor. Still, it was a start.
And it was the Noughties, a time when a woman’s value was still to be found almost entirely through the male gaze, so I was well aware that to be desirable and sexy, I would have to put up with a certain amount of lecherous behaviour.
I met Josh through a friend. He was very handsome and very keen on telling me he’d been to both Oxford and Princeton. So when he suggested we meet up for some drinks, I jumped at the chance. Although, having read books with titles such as He’s Just Not That Into You and The Rules, which dominated the bestseller lists then, I couldn’t be seen to jump at the chance.
First, I had to pretend I was busy in order to convey the necessary level of cool. (As I write these words, I genuinely have no idea how any of us women survived the Noughties.)
Having played the game, I was now in the dingy bar, with Josh whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Sweet nothings that bore little resemblance to the ones in all the Jane Austen novels I’d consumed in my teens.
‘Fancy a s**g?’ Josh grunted at me.
In the Noughties I was well aware that to be desirable and sexy, I would have to put up with a certain amount of lecherous behaviour, writes Bryony Gordon
My distant 20s were jam-packed with proclamations that I was a liberated woman who enjoyed casual sex just as much as the next bloke
‘Yes!’ I tried not to squeal. The relationship books did not encourage squealing. Unless it was in performative delight, as you faked an orgasm.
Later, back at Josh’s flat, I would do a whole lot of said performing – all stuff I had read about in More! magazine’s sex column ‘Position Of The Fortnight’. Josh seemed convinced by my acting skills before he rolled over and fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.
The next morning, he set about hurrying me out of his flat so he could get on with his day. (He couldn’t even bear to offer me brunch, let alone his hand in marriage.) As I pretended to ‘sexily’ rub sleep out of my eyes, he began throwing me my clothes from the floor – a top, some jeans, a pair of silky pink Agent Provocateur knickers.
‘Those are pretty knickers,’ he said. They were indeed pretty – but they weren’t mine. I slunk off, knickerless and loveless and more than a little bit ashamed.
You’d think that, given such a spectacularly terrible experience, I’d have stayed clear of casual encounters with men for the remainder of my life. But no. This was the year 2004, and like many of my friends, I still had a lot to learn.
In fact, for the next seven or so years, until I met my husband Harry, I would return to the one-night stand again and again, hoping that each encounter might imbue me with the validation I so desperately craved as a depressed 20-something lost in a fog of alcohol and eating disorders.
So was I surprised to read this week that women regret one-night stands more than men? Not one bit. A team at the University of Innsbruck in Austria found it is primarily females who lament the casual sex they’ve had, and that the main factor influencing their feelings of regret was sexual satisfaction.
The researchers explained that traditional sexual patterns ‘systematically prioritise male pleasure’, meaning that much of the regret comes from the fact that women aren’t being given any orgasms during these one-night stands.
Other participants said their feelings stemmed from how drunk they were at the time of the liaisons, not to mention worries about their reputation. (No doubt Josh’s friends thought him a bit of a stud, while mine saw me as a sort of tragi-comic fallen woman.)
How depressing that 15 years after my cringeworthy run of one-night stands, women are still having to put up with men who refuse to prioritise their pleasure.
It pains me to say it now, as a liberated 45-year-old who knows exactly what makes her tick, but back then, I truly believed I derived my enjoyment from the pleasure I could give to the man in my bed. Nowadays, you might be able to buy sex toys at Boots and attend workshops on the female orgasm, but in the Noughties the extent of women’s sexual pleasure was a ribbed condom or a Rampant Rabbit, sold as a sort of comedy piece at Ann Summers. We had to be sexy, but not too sexy, lest someone call us a slut.
Like countless female friends, I tried to do the best I could in this confusing landscape … and often ended up feeling much worse in the process. I didn’t want to be seen as a slut, but then nor did I want to be seen as – gasp! – taking myself too seriously.
In the Noughties the extent of women’s sexual pleasure was a ribbed condom or a Rampant Rabbit, sold as a sort of comedy piece at Ann Summers
It makes me feel ill to admit it now, but quite often I thought I was short-changing a bloke if I didn’t go home with him at the end of the night. So I ended up having, at best, middling sexual encounters with men who really didn’t deserve my time, let alone my energy. I don’t recall a single one of them asking me what I liked in bed.
There was the barman from Camden who thought he was a rock star – he told me he’d give me a good time, but all he gave me was nits (I wish I was joking). There was a kickboxer who did invite me on a second date – but since it was to a sex party, I’m not sure it counted. There were several colleagues, tragic indictments of too much alcohol and not enough self-esteem.
There were so many others, men I used like drugs in the hope of getting a quick thrill or a cheap compliment. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more I see that these dozen or so one-night stands were symptoms of a deep malaise, a deluded belief that I could be fixed if I just got enough affection – and attention – from members of the opposite sex.
I’m sure that in an age of OnlyFans and ethical non-monogamy, there are plenty of women who do like having one-night stands. But I worry that these things have given men even more permission to treat women as disposable objects.
With the Manosphere spread far and wide, not to mention online porn, soulless sex is more prevalent than ever.
Young women in their 20s tell me using dating apps such as Hinge and Tinder is a nightmare, and that, yes, they’re still the ones doing all the pleasuring. In a way, I feel relieved that I only came of age during the Noughties, and not when these apps have proliferated as they have today.
My enjoyment of sex has increased the longer I have known my partner (and myself). Indeed, the older I get, the more grateful I am for the likes of Josh. Because while I was mortified as he hurried me out the door, I now see that he was doing me the favour of a very lucky escape.
- Some names have been changed to protect identities.
