The Chat That Made Me Stop Feeling Weird About Sex

The conversation that made me feel approximately 87% less weird about sex happened in our kitchen at about 1am.

Obviously.

I was wearing pyjama shorts, one sock and an old uni hoodie. Ruby was standing in front of the open fridge complaining that somebody had eaten her cheese. Maya was making toast like this was a completely normal time to make toast.

Then Ruby casually mentioned something about a date she’d been on.

Maya replied.

Ruby replied.

And suddenly they were talking about sex.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a gather round, everyone, we are now discussing sexuality way.

Just… normally.

Meanwhile, I was standing there holding a glass of water like I’d accidentally walked into a meeting I hadn’t prepared for.

Because even after buying my first toy, surviving the parcel panic and figuring out how to keep things discreet in a flat with walls apparently made from tracing paper, part of my brain still thought talking about sex meant admitting something.

Like I’d need to submit evidence afterwards.

I thought talking about sex meant revealing a massive secret:

Growing up, sex was not exactly a casual dinner-table topic.

It was more:

Don’t do it.

Be careful.

Moving on.

So even when I got to uni and realised other people were much more relaxed about sex, dating and curiosity, I still had that tiny alarm bell in my head.

Talking about it felt exposing.

Buying a toy felt exposing.

Asking a question felt exposing.

Even admitting I didn’t know something felt exposing.

I’d already started getting better at the privacy side of things. Living with flatmates, thin walls and basically zero personal space forced me to.

I’ve written before about how I keep things discreet when you live with flatmates, because wanting privacy does not mean you’re ashamed.

But I hadn’t completely worked out the difference between privacy and secrecy yet.

Privacy is: this is mine and I don’t have to share it.

Secrecy, for me, was more like: if somebody finds out I’m curious, they’re going to think differently about me.

That second one was exhausting.

Then Maya said the least dramatic thing possible:

So we’re in the kitchen.

Ruby is still campaigning for justice for her missing cheese.

I don’t even remember exactly how we got onto it, but I made some joke about how I’d spent ages panicking before I bought my first toy because I thought everyone would somehow know.

Maya looked at me.

She genuinely looked confused.

“Why would that be weird?”

That was it.

No speech.

No inspirational background music.

No “Lena, thank you for sharing your truth.”

Just:

Why would that be weird?

I immediately tried to explain myself.

Because apparently I couldn’t just accept reassurance. Obviously.

I told her I didn’t know. That I’d always felt like everyone else was somehow more confident about this stuff. That I’d worried buying something made me seem desperate, or too much, or inexperienced, or somehow all three at once.

Maya shrugged.

“Literally nobody is keeping score.”

Ruby, without looking up from the fridge, went, “Also, if you’ve found somewhere cheap, drop the link.”

And that was sort of it.

We moved on.

I realised I’d been treating everyone else like they had it figured out:

I’d created this completely imaginary version of university where everybody except me arrived already knowing everything.

How dating worked.

What they liked.

What they didn’t like.

How to talk about sex without internally combusting.

How many people they “should” have slept with.

Whether they were meant to own toys.

Whether they were meant to want relationships or situationships or absolutely nothing at all.

And the more confident someone seemed, the more I assumed they’d cracked some secret code I’d missed.

They hadn’t.

Obviously.

Some of my friends had more experience than me in certain areas and absolutely no clue in others.

Some were dating.

Some weren’t interested.

Some had loads of confidence discussing sex but got nervous about actually telling someone what they wanted.

Which, funnily enough, I’d been learning too.

When I wrote about setting boundaries while dating at uni, one of the biggest things I realised was that pretending to be “chill” wasn’t actually making me feel chill.

It just made me quiet.

And I think I’d been doing a similar thing with experience.

5 things that conversation actually taught me:

1. You don’t have to overshare to be open
2. Being curious doesn’t mean you should already know everything
3. My friends aren’t a measuring stick
4. “Not for me” is just as normal
5. Sometimes embarrassment gets smaller once you say the thing

Myth vs reality: what I thought “open” flatmates would be like:

Before uni, I genuinely thought people who were confident talking about sex must talk about it constantly.

They do not.

MYTH: Confident people have loads of experience.

REALITY: Sometimes confidence is saying, “I’ve never done that.”

MYTH: Being open means having zero boundaries.

REALITY: Maya is probably the most relaxed person I know about this stuff and still keeps loads of things private.

MYTH: If my friends are comfortable talking about sex, I have to be equally open.

REALITY: I can join in, change the subject or keep my personal life completely to myself.

MYTH: Everyone else knows what they’re doing.

REALITY: Absolutely not. I have seen our Flat Chat.

Case closed.

What if your flatmates aren’t like mine?

This bit matters because I know I’ve been lucky.

Not everybody lives with a Maya.

Some flats are really private.

Some friendship groups never talk about sex.

Some people make jokes that aren’t funny.

Some flatmates are nosy.

And maybe you’re the person who simply doesn’t want these conversations at home.

That’s completely fine.

You do not need a kitchen discussion circle to become comfortable with yourself.

You don’t owe your flatmates details about your sex life, who you’re dating or what you’ve bought.

For me, the useful part wasn’t “everyone should talk about sex.”

It was:

I get to decide what feels normal for me.

Talk to the people who make you feel safe.

Keep things private when you want to.

What I wish first-year me knew:

If you’re at uni and you feel like everyone around you is more experienced, more confident and generally better at being an adult than you are, welcome.

I have terrible news.

Most of us are winging it.

You do not need to have tried everything.

You don’t need to be dating.

You don’t need to own a toy.

You don’t need to want one.

You don’t need to tell your friends anything you don’t want to tell them.

And you definitely don’t need to know exactly what you like yet.

You’re allowed to be curious and nervous at the same time.

You’re allowed to learn slowly.

You’re allowed to change your mind.

You’re allowed to keep things private.

And sometimes the thing that finally makes you realise you’re normal isn’t some massive confidence breakthrough.

Sometimes you’re just standing in a student kitchen at 1am, wearing one sock, while somebody burns toast.

You’re not weird.

You’re learning.