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I woke up last Sunday to my boyfriend giving me forehead kisses and bringing me coffee in bed. Unlike most mornings, the ones where we get up and begin our usual practice, he asked me if I wanted extra time to lie in bed to—get ready for it—read.

I let out a loud, long, and hard YESSSSS, grabbed my phone, opened Substack, and dove into my inbox. The day before, I had noticed an email from (HONEY STAY SUPER) titled Ok Babygirls, Now Let's Get in Formation, and my interest was piqued.

Not because I was particularly excited about seeing Babygirl. Faith had asked me earlier if I wanted to see it while she was home on break from college, and I said Sure. But honestly, the few previews I watched and tidbits I read left me feeling like the movie might cheapen, sexualize, commercialize or exploit the dom/sub dynamic in a way that would leave me feeling put off.

But the email hooked me because opened her post with a fascinating discussion about the movie's director—Halina Reijn—who happens to be Dutch—and the differences between sex education in the Netherlands and America.

Years ago, I overheard Peggy Orenstein on NPR discussing the Dutch approach to sex education. They start teaching around age four with messages rooted in positivity and health. Kimberly's post dove even deeper, which opened my mind and made me grab tickets for Faith and me to see the movie later that day.

What I didn't expect—though perhaps I should have—was the audience. I had imagined being the only mother there with her daughter, judged for bringing her. Wrong. The theater was filled with mother-daughter pairs, groups of girlfriends, and even more surprising (to me)—middle-aged couples and gray-haired attendees who looked like they might have just come from a lecture at the local library. Given I’m middle aged and grey haired, this should not have come as a surprise. If this is me being wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Back to Babygirl. Yes, the movie follows the story of a high-powered CEO who finds herself submitting to her younger male mentee. But that's not the actual thread of the story.

It's about a woman's sexual desires and fantasies—how they've been repressed and denied thanks to conditioning, societal expectations, and the exhausting pursuit of being everything for everyone.

And if that's not relatable to some Midlife women's experience, I don't know what it is.

I have to say I found the relationship between Romy (Kidman) and her daughter, Isabel (McGregor) to be the most informative to Kidman's understanding of and exploration of her own (limited) sexuality, individuality and place in life.

It's a relationship that reminds you, at nearly every intersection, that once a woman becomes a mother, she will never have the freedom, autonomy, or individuality she may have otherwise thought she was entitled to.

There’s no turning away when her daughter mocks her for getting work done on her face by calling her a fish. When Isabel responds to her Romy’s question, ‘but what about your girlfriend?’ her daughter tells her (not verbatim); I can have fun with one person and still love someone else.

The most sobering moment is her walking in the door after being out all night only to be confronted by her daughter who is concerned and worried.

Her daughter senses something is off before anyone else does.

I can see why those who went to see Babygirl to watch some kink play out would be disappointed. It also doesn’t help that it’s being marketed as a ‘psychological thriller.’

I can also understand why you might feel a particular sort of ick or scoff at watching Kidman cover her face and clench her fists in certain scenes.

For example, Samual (Dickinson) demands that she say the words to establish consent. She begs him to tell her what they are— she doesn’t know. Or another scene with her husband Jacob (Banderas) where we see Romy hiding under a sheet and giggling while trying to communicate her desires to her husband, but unable to.

She comes off as inexperienced and awkward.

There is a visceral breakdown between her wanting and having when it comes to her sexual desires and fantasies; it's as if she cannot form the words or take the actions despite everything in her wanting to.

It's where she loses her power.

It's in those scenes I found myself captured; her experience was almost mine to a T.

Her inability to articulate what she wanted and the clumsy way she navigated her desires felt uncomfortably familiar. It reminded me of a version of myself in the bedroom and the first time I stepped into a dynamic where I was expected to submit.

We really see the peak of all this repressed energy manifest into a rage one night when her husband starts touching her for sex. Years of lying there and not saying anything erupt from her fists. She goes from not knowing how to communicate clearly to clearing any confusion with, I've never had an orgasm with you. In 19 years. Never.

If that won’t get someone’s attention, I don’t know what will.

The next day, she tried to backtrack and said she had just been tired and overworked. They began to get into it, and I'm 99.99999% positive she said, 'I'm not normal,' first. After a few more interactions, he agreed with her by saying, 'You're not normal!' and walked out.

Most reviews I've read take issue with Him saying, 'You're not normal.'

"In human sexuality, kinkiness is the use of sexual practices, concepts or fantasies that are not conventional." Wikipedia

Not conventional implies not normal. However, it does not mean wrong (or right).

Kidman’s statement or definition that what she desires or how she is wired is not normal was never a negative moment but a very potent one.

I’m not like you. I’m not like others.

Whatever internalized shame she may have had about not being ‘normal’ lost its hold on her the moment she owned that denied part of herself.

Was his response rooted in judgment? Sure. But only because he felt insecure knowing he had never pleased her and didn’t feel competent in being able to meet her where she wanted.

(As I type this I can honestly say I’ve also experienced being in his shoes.)

Of course, his response is shaped by conditioning, which unfolds and evolves as the story progresses.

Watching Babygirl, I couldn’t help but see myself in Romy’s awkwardness and hesitation. Her inability to articulate what she wanted, the shame she carried, and the clumsy way she navigated her desires felt uncomfortably familiar. It reminded me of the first time I stepped into a dynamic where I was expected to relinquish control—not just in the physical sense but emotionally, mentally, and sexually.

Being submissive didn’t come naturally to me, at least not at first. Like Romy, I had spent so much of my life hiding what I wanted or downplaying it to make others comfortable.

Unlike Romy, I hadn't yet uncovered some of my desires and fantasies; they lingered just below the surface, waiting for the right moment.

That moment arrived in my mid to late thirties when a friend introduced me to his friend, who boldly announced, "I'm really good at tying people up. So good, in fact, you'll be begging me to fuck you."

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It was a Saturday morning like any other at my house. I woke a little later than my alarm suggested, brewed a little more coffee than I would on a weekday and started stripping the sheets off my bed while listening to my friend D.J. on KUTX.  As the hours went by, I went from room to room doing chores, cycling laundry and pausing to look at my phone.

I grabbed my warm sheets from the dryer and carried them upstairs to my room. I pulled the fitted sheet from the bundle and started to wrap it over the top right corner of my bed when a memory from the night before surfaced. How had I forgotten. 

My headboard. I was having sex and it squeaked. Or Eeked. 

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I don’t know the number of times it’s happened. Where the banter begins; his listening ear of I’m here and promising voice of I want you. Her guard begins to lower itself. The consistent conversation of where it’s going and what it can be. Her opening of self. Him inserting himself. The spreading of legs. Him penetrating. The withdrawal. Sometimes immediate and quick. Sometimes slow and painful. 

I finished peeing and did a body scan. The residual feeling in my body; the longing and wanting; the hurt and the how; it was gone. I took the toilet paper, wiped between my legs and flushed it. 

I remembered SZA announcing to the crowd on stage last year, ‘Sometimes shit is just confusing. Sometimes it’s just I fucking hate you and that’s it.’ I don't hate anyone though. Instead, I think, instead I wish I’d never met most of the men who have come my way over the years. The sex wasn’t worth what internal chaos they brought to my life. Would I even remember some of them in the future?

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It was my ex reaching out—the same man who, while we were together, had been possibly the most possessive, jealous man I'd ever dated, but who had become much more open to the idea of me with others over the years since we parted ways.

"You're out of your mind. I'm not going to meet up with some random man for anything. Besides, I'll be with my family, and as you know, when 'mom mode' is turned on, 'pleasure-seeking Ash' is turned off."

"Wait! You have to hear first. This guy, he's from India and lives on the outskirts of London is giving women orgasms. All of these high society mum-mum types can't stop seeing him. I want to know what it's like."

I interjected, "I'm not going to have sex with a stranger so you can be better informed!"

"No! Listen... It's not like 'normal' sex. And he's not technically a stranger because I know a man who knows a few of the women who see him."

"And you want ME to go?! You're fucking crazy," I said.

"It's not happening. But tell me more... About the not normal part."

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This childhood fantasy, no less awkward than puberty itself, surfaced one afternoon at the dentist’s office. Stretched out in the chair and gazing at my dentist and her assistant, I started to explain that I was out having dinner with friends when my crown fell off.

As if that wasn’t awkward enough, I ended up getting approached by a guy that I had harbored a crush on for years moments after it happened.

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Okay…. he said before asking, but how do you feel about doing that?

The same as before; unsure about what I’ll feel seeing you with someone else. Although, I guess this would be different; they don’t want to partner swap, but instead parallel play. 

It’s up to you, baby. 

They did mention one small condition, I said as I changed lanes. I started to laugh, it’s almost literal.

What is it? 

They would prefer the man joining not to have a big dick. 

What?! He blurted out.

I guess the other guy is just above average and they would prefer the other dick in the room to be similar. And we both know your size is nowhere near average, I said and bit my lip. 

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I opened my laptop with my coffee and started organizing my thoughts. No sooner did my fingers start to tippity-type, when a man wearing terminator-like sun glasses and a  windbreaker went walking by only to stop mid-swing to say, whoa… ‘nice shoes.’ 

He pulled his glasses over the bridge of his nose and stared down at them, then looked at me.  

My shoes, an Adidas Gucci Clog, had been getting all sorts of attention throughout the day and I had warmly - okay quite graciously - accepted all the gushing as if I were personally responsible for making them.

However fast these moments may seem, when a man out of nowhere starts talking to me, I tend to have momentary Matrix-like glitches where, life in action, slows almost to a stop. 

Do I say thank you or just smile? 

A ‘thank you’ might invite a conversation. 

A smile might invite more. 

None of which I had time for as I was intent on working. 

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I had to check my bias. Just because it was coming from a man in a coffee shop wearing a windbreaker and terminator glasses didn’t mean I couldn’t pause and be polite.

So I dropped my guard and said thank you… with a smile. 

Perhaps this serves as a lesson learned to never combine the two but, alas I might have missed out on a 20 minute deep dive into the worries and concerns of a comedy writer post the #metoo movement (this deserves its own column) into his obsession for anal sex and the Porn industry being to blame for normalizing it in his eyes.

How, you might be wondering, in the hell?!?! Same, dear reader, same. But it will be quite obvious because his next question led to my next answer and just like that, I learned that only 3% of women want anal sex.

Who knew? No one… until now. 

When he asked what I was doing that day in the coffee shop I answered ‘working’. A subtle attempt to hint that I was busy, please keep moving…

‘On what?’ He asked as he looked at my laptop.

Now, I know for sure I said ‘on my column…’ and I’m more than positive I said ‘I talk and write about dating sex and relationships’ when he asked what kind of column, but I don’t believe I mentioned ‘Porn’ or ‘Butts’. Which is why this conversation in many ways seems serendipitous. Kismet!

A sign, if you will, that maybe I should listen and heed his advice because he went straight into what I was writing about. Albeit, from a very different position.

‘There’s something you need to tell your audience. Especially, the men.’ He said as he sat down on the bench next to me, pushed his glasses up into his hair. He leaned back with his legs kicked out and crossed and looked at me with an expression that was serious, almost urgent.

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‘Porn is distorting mens views on sexuality and what women want. We are being lied to. Women in real life don’t actually want anal sex.’

those were his words...

‘Here’s what I think; Porn has set men up with an unrealistic expectation that all women want anal and they don’t. I’ve calculated that only about 3% of women do. For years I’ve been trying to teach women how to and what to do and I now know they have to want it for themselves. And most won’t want it after the first time. It’s usually then, or shortly thereafter, the relationship ends. After we have anal. You know, I think they are uneasy about having sex and it not being in their natural sex organ.’

I interrupted him. ‘I think it’s interesting that you’re referring to the vagina as being a natural sex organ. It would imply that the anus is not a natural place to have sex. Or that some sex organs are more natural than others. Which is what Freud and other puritanical conditioning would have you believe. Maybe that is where some of your desire stems from. That it’s ‘bad’ and a place you shouldn’t go.’ 

‘Maybe… he said. One morning when I was sleeping, he said as leaned his head on the back of the bench and looked up at the ceiling,  I woke up to a woman riding my dick and it was in her ass. I had one eye closed because I was afraid if she knew I was awake she would stop. I couldn’t believe it. It was like a sea creature was attached to my dick. This beautiful Italian woman, like a suction cup, was just riding me. After that it opened my mind. I saw sex, all types and women differently. She had wanted it and I was able to let go of the idea that I should want other women to want it. I’m working with a therapist now.’

I wondered if he arrived at this epiphany or conclusion from the help of the therapist or if the moment of self discovery truly came to him when the sea creature was suctioned on his dick. 

I couldn't get his words ‘sea creature attached to my dick’ out of my mind. At this point in the conversation I wanted more than anything to hit record because I have never heard someone so casually, and vividly describe sex to me. 

He went on, ‘That’s how I’ve figured out that only 3% of women want anal.’ 

I guess it doesn’t matter how he got there so long as he arrived. 

‘Hey, he said. I feel like you and I could keep this going. You’re like gasoline and I have this spark. You could turn this into a fire.’

I wondered if he thought I was part of the 3% of women who wanted anal.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Not at him, but the situation. Perhaps my work as a person who talks and writes about sex so openly has distorted the view of who I am.

‘No my friend, I said. But I am going to spread your message like wildfire. That if a woman wants it, she will tell you. That Porn is distorting mens views of women and sex. That therapy is a great outlet for men to unpack and work out their very natural and normal sexual desires; to give you a more accurate lens that is separate from the over-sexualized, sexist and misogynistic one Porn has created.

And while a 100% of women will fall for ‘nice shoes’, only 3% of them will go for a line like ‘gasoline on fire.’

What are you talking about? Colin Farrell is doing porn? I said flatly while feeling the cup of the bra meet the wire. 

No, she said. It’s a home video of them having sex. 

It’s online? 

Yah. 

Wait, What? How’d that happen? I asked.

It’s 2016 Ashley. It got leaked! You have to see it. See him… 

I put the bra down and swiveled my chair towards the computer. Up until this point in my life I wasn’t much into Porn. The few times in my adult life it had been suggested or turned on I found myself immediately turned off. The intensity of pounding and close ups. Sex centric. Loud. No water on the bathroom mirror or socks on the floor to identify with. 

I hit play and watched on as Nicole (if it’s okay I’m going to call them by their first names) is standing there naked, trying to find something to play on tv. A white cat saunters through, arches its back and begins rubbing against her leg. Nicole squats down to flick through the channels. Colin belligerently compliments her while he lays on the couch, stroking himself and filming it all. 

If I recall, I was no longer intrigued but consumed. I couldn’t stop watching. I felt… pacified…

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