Bring on the big O.
I would not describe myself as a late bloomer though the facts of my story belie that statement.
I was pudgy, I wore glasses as round as my face. My mom chose all of my clothes and I was never a girl that boys "liked".
This didn't mean I wasn't sexually curious.
In second grade while watching a documentary on jazz, I turned to a friend and said, "I think the saxophone has something to do with sex."
I was not correct on any level.
I was just totally clueless.
As a kid, I spent a notorious amount of time with my hand down my pants.
I wasn't masturbating, I was comforting myself. It's warm down there, as I'm sure you also know.
They were unrelated experiences.
In high school, the "bad girls" talked about their sex lives, spending the weekend sneaking into adult novelty stores to buy cheap vibrators.
I was enthralled but baffled.
They talked about how to have an orgasm all the time, but while I laid in bed aching, it wasn't for orgasms. My fantasies were for stuff like kisses from my one true love while wearing a very ornate Renaissance style gown and also maybe I had magical powers. I may have been reading too many fantasy novels.
But I digress.
By the time I got to college, I had pretty much written off my sexuality until I was placed in a dorm suite with girls a couple years older than me.
They talked about their sex lives in ways none of my close friends did, and when they placed a bulk order of vibrators, I got in on the action.
I ordered this wearable vibrator that looked like a butterfly and was supposed to hit your G-Spot and your clit. It was powered by an attached remote control.
I lied when my suite-mates asked how it went. They were far too invested in my first orgasm.
"I figured out how to have an orgasm, it was dope," I probably said, fooling no one.
When I went home that summer I was too paranoid about my mom finding my vibrator so I threw it away.
But I hadn't given up my quest for an orgasm.
I went back to basics, touching myself with my hands only, focusing on my body's reactions instead of distant sexual fantasies.
When my first orgasm finally happened I was nearly asleep and rubbing myself.
I remember bolting awake and feeling both like I had to sneeze and desperately scratch an itch.
But I did neither. Instead, I had my first, real orgasm.
In the past, I thought I had experienced one, but actually having one made it very clear: When you have an orgasm, you know.
My inexperience and relative late-blooming didn't make unsexy or lame, it made me, well, inexperienced and late-blooming.
Whenever I experience a dip in libido now, I try to conjure up those early orgasms and the feeling of connectedness to by body that went with them.
I have had many orgasms since, and I don't remember them all, but that first one will always hold a special place in my heart (and vagina).