Like a grandmother with countless bedtime stories, I have a seemingly endless collection of entertaining sexual encounters. There was the time I disappeared from a club mid-makeout session when ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ came on because I ‘spoke Spanish.’ There was the shower sex with a man who shared my father’s name, the unsolicited armpit licking, and the time I was spanked during a house party while my traumatized friends listened from the hallway. Sharing these stories usually elicits laughter or amazement at my former sexual escapades. However, I conceal the fact that I rarely enjoyed these encounters. I was often distracted, playing with rings or thinking about assignments. When asked, “What do you like?” I would mumble, “Do whatever.” My goal was to please the other person, seeking validation in the process. Despite my extensive sexual experience, I couldn’t pinpoint a single thing I genuinely liked or disliked. Predictably, sex lost its appeal, and I put a halt to casual hookups. During a conversation with intimacy coach Aili Seghetti, this backstory poured out effortlessly. She approached the topic of pleasure methodically, inquiring about my preferences, boundaries, sexual history, and trauma. “Are you more of a giver or receiver?” she asked. “A receiver,” I replied without hesitation. “I don’t like doing much in bed.” She followed up with, “But when you’re receiving, are you genuinely enjoying it? Or are you merely performing for the other person?” A gasp escaped my lips: my chronic sexual dissatisfaction suddenly made sense. Even when physically receiving, I was solely focused on pleasing the other person, putting on a show. “Exactly,” Seghetti smiled. “You’re actually a giver.” She explained that many couples face bedroom issues because both partners feel they’re constantly giving, resulting in mutual dissatisfaction. Eager for a pleasure mapping session with Seghetti, I arrived clad in a tank top and shorts as requested. I had also reviewed the guidelines. Theoretically, I understood pleasure mapping: an exploration of one’s body by stimulating erogenous zones with touch to enhance sensitivity and communication. It employs varying speeds, pressures, rhythms, temperatures, and textures on different body parts. This non-sexual exercise, according to the Italian-Finnish intimacy coach, is primarily intended for self-understanding. Seghetti blindfolded me before I lay down. Under the cool air of the air conditioner, she gently touched my hair. “Tell me if you feel aroused, relaxed, or neutral,” she instructed. “If a touch feels neutral, how can we improve it? Should I increase or decrease the pressure or speed?” Within minutes of Seghetti touching my hair, neck, and shoulders, I realized something: increased pressure relaxed me, while lighter pressure—her fingers merely brushing my skin—aroused me. My décolletage and arms, I discovered, were neutral zones. My legs and back, on the other hand, twitched at every touch, toeing the line between ticklish and aroused. After fifteen minutes of using her hands, Seghetti introduced toys: a feather tickler, metal claws, a loofah, and a Wartenberg wheel. Surprisingly, I preferred hands over the feather tickler. The metal claws, with their unexpected sharpness, were enjoyable. The loofah’s roughness felt relaxing, and the Wartenberg wheel, a tool used by physiotherapists to assess nerve function, brought a slight, sharp ache that I surprisingly relished. Discussing this discovery with Seghetti later, she mentioned encountering individuals who derive pleasure from pain due to their scattered brains. “I’ve noticed a link between ADHD and pain tolerance,” she stated. “People with ADHD often find comfort in pain as a grounding mechanism.” (This correlation astounded me, and I shared it with my friends: five of them, diagnosed with ADHD, agreed it resonated with their experiences.) Verbal play, I discovered, was the most challenging aspect. When Seghetti whispered words of encouragement in my ears, I flinched. Afterward, we discussed my reaction, and I admitted my difficulty accepting compliments, even in everyday life. “Would you have preferred abusive phrases?” Seghetti asked, genuinely curious. I nodded, realizing that negative words were easier for me to believe than positive ones. An hour later, Seghetti and I concluded. She removed the blindfold and offered water and chocolates as we sat in bed to reflect on the experience. “That was one of the top five mornings of my life,” I exclaimed, enthralled. Focusing on and understanding my own body was empowering and meditative. In school, pleasure is often overlooked in sex education. In other contexts—especially for women—we’re taught to prioritize our partner’s pleasure. For women, discovering their own desires and preferences independently is revolutionary. It’s a gradual but essential part of self-exploration, a step towards self-reliance and pleasure without relying on others. Pleasure mapping enhances our ability to express our needs and emphasizes the significance of communication during intimacy. It fosters a greater awareness of our own bodies—and our partner’s—and reminds us that sexual experiences involve more than just our genitals; various body parts contribute to our pleasure. Professional pleasure mapping should be more widely known and accepted. When I expressed this to Seghetti, she smiled knowingly: “It helps when you know someone doesn’t want to have sex with you, doesn’t it? You instantly feel safer.”
Unlocking Your Pleasure: A Personal Journey with an Intimacy Coach
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