“I’m a 30-something single woman who loves sex. I know this makes people uncomfortable.”

Ah 30. One of life’s great milestones. 

An age by which you’re suddenly expected to have it all. A career, kids, a better half, and a property in the ‘burbs. 

Loudly, I laugh in the face of these outdated expectations.  

Except, maybe it’s more of a snigger. Because when I stop to look around – or at least at my class of 2006 – HOLY MOLY, nearly every single one of them has seemingly got their s**t together. 

If decades worth of Facebook stalking has showed me anything, it’s that almost all of my former peers have at least one box ticked. Hell, I may be the only one not to have birthed a bub or said 'I do' in the 15 years since high school. 

Gulp. 

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But even though I may still be utterly single and living with housemates, there is one major, h-u-g-e-l-y important part of my life that I am on top of. Literally. 

And that is sex. 

Forget the birds and the bees and my dying eggs (cheers Mum for reminding me of that each year), I am talking about the best, earth-shattering, all-encompassing, it’s-only-taken-me-22-years-to-get-to-this-point sex. 

You see, since turning the “dreaded” three-zero, I’ve reached a new sexual peak that I didn’t even know existed.

Perhaps it’s the astonishing level of confidence that comes with being 30. I no longer care about what people think and I’m not trying to be anyone I’m not. This is me, and I love it.  

Not only has my libido hit new heights and stamina gone from strength to strength, but suddenly the world has – more than metaphorically – opened up to me. 

Ever since that birthday two years ago, I’ve had opportunities that my 20-something self could only fantasise about.

Threesomes.

Sex cubs. 

Swinging and submission. 

After a decade of sexual insecurity, I am owning and relishing this newly discovered identity.

...But not everyone is happy for me.  

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While I’m not about to go around announcing that I had an orgy, over the past few years I’ve noticed a subtle change in conversations. 

My friends have stopped asking questions about my dates or nights out, and simply nod when I tell them I went home with a guy.

These are people who used to ask for every juicy detail, and pester me until I’d given them a play-by-play. 

Maybe it’s that those kind of extracurriculars were funny in our 20s, expected and accepted, but by 30, maybe the party is meant to be over.

Now, I just feel like I’m making people uncomfortable. 

Two months ago, I flew to a new city to meet an old date for a naughty weekend away. It was intense, passionate, and just about the best sex I’d ever had. But when I got back, none of my friends asked about it. No one pried, and I didn’t get the 20 questions interrogation I'm used to. 

By the time I caught up with a mate who I usually share these sexcapade tales with, I was so full of stories that I word-vomited all over the pub table, completely oversharing and unnecessarily volunteering way more information than was called for. 

The look on her face – and her fiancé's sitting next to her – said it all. I instantly regretted every single sentence. 

The irony here is that not even the men can keep up. It appears the balance has finally tipped, and I’m the one with one thing on their mind. A recent date, who I assumed was under the understanding that this was a f**k buddy thing, went on to ask me halfway through dinner, “why are you here?” I was confused. 

For my whole dating life, whilst looking for a partner, the majority of men I met only wanted sex. And now here I was, responsibly making a conscious decision to have fun, and this man was baffled. 

So, I’ve begun to keep a lot to myself. Even from those I’m closest to. 

Because 30 and wild isn’t smiled upon. It doesn’t fit into the mould society has created for us women.

Even my friends want me to squeeze myself into that perfect little box, and when I don’t, they don’t want to hear about it. 

Because whether it’s 2022 or not, the expectations are still there. They sit like an undercurrent that we’re all meant to dictate our lives too. And those loud, confident, sexual women go against the grain. 

But that’s the thing about 30. 

At the end of the day, you don’t give a damn. 

The author of this post is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons. 

Feature image: Getty

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