I have a friend who is the most sexually adventurous person I’ve ever met. From threesomes to sex parties, she’s practically done it all. I absolutely love her because for it. Like, to death. If there were posters of her out there, I’d buy one, put it in a little frame, and hang her over my bed like the Virgin Mary.

She lives out my fantasies. She’s done everything I’ve ever wanted to do and done it well. Some months ago, my mom and I were having a heated debate about her. We were talking about my “wild friend” when my mom, honest to God, said that people who had threesomes or orgies were “mentally deranged.” 

At that moment, all I could think was: Thank God I’m not 12 years old anymore, because this would have fucked me up for the rest of my life.

Obviously I didn’t grow up in a sex positive family. The first time I said the word “masturbation” in front of my mom, she looked at me like I’d told her I was selling my soul to the devil. And for whatever sadistic reason, the universe or God or whoever, made me a really sexual person. It would eat away at me when I was younger. My heart sank like a ship whenever I touched myself — like I’d done the worst possible thing on Earth.  

The only people who talked openly about sex when I was younger were boys. My girlfriends only mentioned it between giggles, quickly followed by “I’m kidding!” I remember nights where after an orgasm, I would type on the Google search bar: “Am I a sex addict?” because I couldn’t imagine that anyone else thought about sex as much as I did. I felt alone. 

When we were 13, my friends would fantasize about their future boyfriends who’d hold their hands and kiss them on the mouths tenderly like they were made of paper. All I could think about were a bunch of different hands on me, and making out with two people at once against walls and doors and beds. I wanted the tender and soft experience of a boyfriend, but I also wanted him to be comfortable with me making out with other people at parties because one person didn’t feel like enough. 

When my friends started losing their virginities, they learned a new catchphrase to validate the act: “But, I’m not, like, a slut.” Whenever they said that, I would think, all I want to be is a slut. What’s wrong with that? 

They seemed to think that sex was only okay if you did it with the same person. I, on the other hand, wanted to do it with a bunch of people — sometimes, all at once.

It wasn’t until we turned 16, sitting among the debris of a party, drunk out of our minds, that we mentioned masturbation for the first time aloud. One of them asked us if we masturbated and we all said, “No, eww! Do girls even do that?”

The next day, hungover on the bus ride home, all I could do was hate myself because I truly thought that I was sick for even thinking of touching myself. That Monday, during lunch, I decided to come clean and tell them that I did masturbate — every day, in fact.

They didn’t shun me like I thought they would; those who also masturbated simply admitted to it, while the others asked us questions about it. It was really nice. 

Talking about masturbation with my friends in high school made me feel comfortable to start talking about all the other things I wanted to do. I told them about the threesomes I fantasized about, as well as the wild sex parties and being tied up and spanked and whatever else it was I had been made to feel guilty for wanting. 

And it felt freeing because women’s desires are always used against them. So much so that we’re called brave for doing anything outside of the “norm” — for not wearing makeup in public, for expecting and demanding pleasure from sex, for saying no. Things that we shouldn’t even have to advocate for. And we’re constantly being punished for this supposed bravery. Words like “slut” get thrown around whenever we express a love for something we’re supposed to pretend we don’t want. People don’t understand how heavy a word like “slut” can be. So heavy, we carry it around everywhere, and not uncommonly, for lifetimes. We even carry it home, to our beds, where the only ones who can judge us and our touch are ourselves. 

The reason why we keep fighting so hard against slut-shaming, why I keep arguing with my mom about it, is because I don’t want to have to be brave anymore. I want to masturbate, or have threesomes, or have multiple sexual partners without feeling like I’ve fought and won a war every time. I simply want to be. 

I’m proud to say that I’m a sexual person. It’s something I really love about myself now. It made losing my virginity so much less stressful because I didn’t care about impressing the guy; all I was after was the experience. It gave me the push to sleep with a girl for a year and a half without feeling confused or guilty about my sexuality. In a world that constantly insists this is a quality that should evoke nothing trouble and shame in women, I have discovered nothing but liberation and opportunity from it. I can’t wait for younger generations to have more sexually liberated parents like my adventurous friend, and now, myself.

Growing up in a sex positive family is my idea of the new American Dream.After all, isn’t a happier, healthier future generation the goal?

Photos/gifs (in order of appearance) by Alyssa Llorando, Sara Andreasson, and Daniela Guevara.