That damned clock is ticking. I’m sure it’s been pacing away since my teens, but I’ve noticed it only recently: the timer in my mind that counts up towards some chaste world record and down to some imagined expiry date. Because that’s what I believe: I’m steadily accelerating towards a cliff off the edge of which there is no return – no possibility of a fulfilling sex life.
Likely you imagine me as one of two things: a religious devotee, saving myself for my wedding night, or a basement-dweller, occupied with virtual achievements and still living with my parents. Well, I am neither. I’m agnostic and not too bad to look at, with a master’s degree and a career in political communications. I cook, play the fiddle, am well travelled, have my own place in a big city and a generous handful of close friends. My relationship with my parents is solid and supportive. I am what most would call well adjusted – a catch, even. So what gives?
Honestly, I’m afraid. I’m afraid it won’t be satisfying for my partner, and of what that much intimacy means. I’m afraid I’ll hurt my partner emotionally, or take advantage of them, or not be enough for them. And, as this saga continues, it’s increasingly terrifying to envision telling a partner I have no experience. Sex is loaded with so much meaning that it’s overwhelming. Perform, be vulnerable, give pleasure, know exactly what your partner wants: I’m stifled by anxiety at the prospect.
But, as 30 approaches, the ticking is getting louder. Maybe, by some miracle, I’ll find someone and it will be fulfilling and I’ll wonder why I ever worried. Or is it already too late?
• Each week, a reader tells us about their sex life. Want to share yours? Email sex@theguardian.com
