A sex columnist on the sex advice she’d give her younger self

Approaching her 30th birthday, sex writer Laura Roscioli reflects on a formative sexual experience and what she wishes she knew earlier.

If you’d have told teenage me that I’d be a dedicated sex writer and columnist by the time I was 30, I wouldn’t have believed you. I was timid, I didn’t wear much make-up, I loved reading books. I wore vintage dresses and dreamt of old school romance. I didn’t know how to talk to boys but I desperately wanted to be kissed. I yearned for someone to hold my hand and walk me home. But I didn’t know how to ask for any of it. In fact, asking felt unsexy.

Every time I was kissed in high school, it felt like some kind of miracle. Once, a boy a few years older than me kissed me at a 16th birthday bash in front of everyone. All the girls were jealous (he looked like Taylor Lautner and it was peak-Twilight era) and I was thrilled. He told me he liked me because I was shy and because I didn’t try too hard to win over his affection. That stuck with me – to be chosen, it was best to lay low. 

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Everyone – the magazines, the books, my friends and their mums – told me that men needed to come to me. That it was best to sit pretty and wait, and that doing it any other way was ‘slutty’. The boys said so, too. When girls would say how they felt out loud (that they wanted to be kissed, fucked, adored), the boys would roll their eyes and make vomit noises. Being a sexual woman was a turn off. 

I thought that to be irresistible was to be aloof. Sitting pretty in the middle of the school yard, my hair perfect, my boobs perky, my stomach flat… eating my sandwich, just waiting to be chosen.  But waiting was agony. Boys would text me they liked me, then ignore me at parties. They’d kiss me, then never look at me again. I thought something must be wrong with me.

But then, in my late teens, something shifted. I went home with a man double my age, on a whim. He’d asked me if I’d like an after work drink. I obliged. Hours later, I found myself on his sofa. He poured me a big glass of heavy red wine and sat down next to me, visibly nervous. His energy surprised me. He seemed new at this, like he didn’t know what to say or what to do with his hands. It was clear that he wanted to kiss me or touch my leg, but he sat half a metre away from me on the couch, sipping his wine and trying not to let his gaze drop down to my boobs.

In that moment I remember wondering what would happen if I lent into being the girl I’d always wanted to be: the confident, flirtatious, sexually comfortable girl who made the first move, who whispered sweet nothings into the ears of older men without worrying about being discarded. It felt like this was my moment to try it out.

I put my wine on the coffee table and mounted him, so I was sitting atop him on the couch. He let me do it, wine still in hand, a look of awe spread across his face. I felt on top of the world, looking down at him with a newfound sense of power I didn’t know was available to me. I was surprised to find that in that moment, he’d do anything I wanted. I took the wine out of his hand, took my top off and kissed him.

I didn’t realise the gravity of it at the time, but something inside me shifted that night. In a split second, my decision — and his response — changed the way I viewed sex. More distinctly, it changed the way I understood female power, and how I began to move through the world from that moment on.

No one tells you, as a young woman, that you already hold power within your femininity. Instead, we grow up being fed a story that our entire worth lies in being chosen — and that being chosen depends on how quiet, demure, and undemanding we can be. Meanwhile, boys are being taught that theirs lies in whether or not they can get us into bed. But who decides if that happens? Women. 

In the world of heterosexuality — and to be quite frank, patriarchy — being a woman is to possess what men want. But instead of teaching us that we can use that power to protect ourselves, to ask for what we want, to say no, to walk through the world with confidence, we’re told we have no power at all.  Capitalism feeds on this story, too. If women believe their worth is in being chosen, there’s always something more to buy: a smaller dress size, a new lipstick, a Pilates class pass, a pair of spanks. These systems keep us moving in circles, chasing worth through things outside of ourselves, instead of recognising the power we already hold within.

It’s hard to unravel, because these systems don’t actually serve anyone. They might look like they protect male power, but really they isolate men from women, from intimacy, from their own vulnerability. In the end, both parties feel disconnected – the Patriarchy starves us of closeness while seemingly giving us control. I want women to know what I wish my younger self had known from the get-go: that you’re way more powerful than you think.

After I slept with that man twice my age, I realised I didn’t need to silently appease the male gaze with my existence anymore, because simply by being a woman, I already had it. That realisation gave me the confidence to be open about my sexuality, to work through the shame I carried in my body, and to speak freely about my sexual experiences. It gave me the courage to call out yucky behaviour when I saw or received it. And most importantly, it gave me the freedom to experience pleasure without the fear of losing my value.

I went from being the timid teenager waiting to be kissed, to the girl who kissed first. Who shamelessly seduced men with red lipstick alone, who had sex based on vibes not judgement. I slept with the boy I’d always had a crush on throughout childhood. I slept with women, learnt how to pleasure myself and even fell in love. I found myself writing about it. It opened my eyes to just how much desire is all around us, how much it can teach us about ourselves and about how much fear we all still hold around sexuality. I learnt that having sex is one of the most exposing things you can do but that that’s what makes it so magical.

Even still, as I reach the age of 30, I don’t know who the gendered, sexually repressed narrative is for. All it really does is reduce our value to something outside of our control. It keeps us afraid to speak up, to go after what we want, to be vulnerable. It convinces us that desire itself is dangerous because if we admit that we want it and don’t get it, we feel like we’ve failed.

But honestly, if I could give younger me (and maybe you, right now!) one piece of advice, it would be this: wake up to your own power, and use it. If you’re a woman, lean into your femininity. It isn’t something to hide or be ashamed of, it’s your strength. If you’re a man, open yourself up to the power of female sexuality. I know it can feel confronting but it’s beautiful, and it will only deepen your connection with yourself.

And regardless of your sexual or gender identity, know this: you have the power to feel pleasure, to express your feelings and to live the life you want. The sooner you recognise what’s already inside of you, the sooner you’ll find the freedom to enjoy – and have – better sex. 

Laura Roscioli is a sex writer based in Melbourne. Her column on Fashion Journal is here to make sex (and the conversations around it) more accessible and open-minded. She believes that the best learnings come from lived experience, and she’s here to share hers — and other people’s — with you. You can follow Laura on Instagram at @lauraroscioli.

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