What I Knew in My Body

A Memoir by a Woman Who Never Apologized for Wanting

I was nineteen when I first had sex. It wasn't a grand act of rebellion or love--it was simply something I was ready for. I had carried desire in my body for years before that, and by the time I crossed that threshold, it felt less like an event and more like an inevitability. I didn't feel ashamed. I didn't feel guilty. I felt awake.

By the time I turned twenty-seven, I had slept with thirty-five men. That averages out to about four men a year--not exactly wild when you consider how long I was single and how consistently I was clear about what I wanted. People hear a number like that and often rush to judgment. But to me, each encounter was part of a larger story: the story of a woman who knew herself early and never needed permission to follow her own pleasure.

Sex was always part of the relationship. If I was attracted to a man, that attraction would inevitably find its way into the bedroom. There wasn't some moral threshold I waited to cross. I didn't need a man to prove himself first. If the chemistry was right, if our eyes lingered too long over drinks or our knees brushed and stayed close, that was enough. Sometimes it happened on the first date. Sometimes the second. Rarely the third. By then, we were lovers.

It wasn't about being reckless. I was on birth control. I insisted on condoms if I wasn't sure about someone's history. But I didn't worry about what people thought. I was young during a time when premarital sex still raised eyebrows, especially for women. That didn't matter to me. I wasn't going to let a social expectation stand between me and the raw, electric joy of being with someone physically.

I didn't have to love them. They didn't have to love me. It wasn't empty--it was just direct. Honest. If I were a runner, I'd have gone on a run with them. I liked sex. They liked sex. End of story. There was a kind of liberation in keeping it that simple.

And then I met Gene.

It was a blind date, set up by a mutual friend. I didn't expect much--I had done this kind of thing before. But something about Gene was different. I remember the moment I saw him. Something in my chest cracked open. Call it intuition. Call it fate. But I knew he was the one I had been waiting for. The kind of knowing that doesn't come from your head, but from your deep within.

We didn't sleep together that first night. He didn't get a hand job or a blowjob, either. I waited--three weeks and five or six dates. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't want to jeopardize something that felt so rare. I was afraid that if I gave in too quickly, he might see me differently. I didn't want to be dismissed or misunderstood.

So I told him the truth. On our second date, I told him about the men before him--all thirty-five. I wanted him to know what he was getting with me. I wasn't going to soften myself or downplay my past. If he couldn't handle it, better to find out then.

But he didn't flinch. He didn't judge. That moment sealed it for me more than any kiss ever could. It told me I could be fully myself with him--and still be loved.

We've been together forty-five years now. Married for forty-three. And yes, I've been with other men since. Another forty-five, to be exact. That's not a secret between Gene and me. We've always had our own understanding--one built on truth, trust, and mutual respect. We've never fit neatly into society's expectations of what a relationship "should" be, but what we've built works for us. It has lasted for decades, through joy, grief, parenting, aging, and all the mundane and extraordinary moments in between.

Not long ago, I shared part of my story online. A man wrote to me--respectfully--and said he was surprised. He said I looked "elegant, classy--not trashy." He asked, genuinely curious, how someone like me had chosen to sleep with so many men. It was not an insult; it was an invitation to explain. I told him the truth.

Sex, for me, was never something to be ashamed of. It was a part of how I moved through the world, how I expressed my freedom, my confidence, my hunger. I didn't sleep with men to be wanted. I slept with them because I wanted to. I was in control of my body, and I never saw that as something shameful.

Looking back now, at seventy-one, I feel immense pride. I didn't wait for the world to give me permission to be who I was. I didn't shrink myself to make others more comfortable. I followed my desire, and in doing so, I found not just pleasure, but peace.

I'm still that woman. Still alive in my body. Still unafraid. And I wouldn't change a thing.