“Hurry up!” I say all too often when my daughters are growing up.

Also, sadly, I am a virgin when I marry at 22. I can’t remember my first intercourse or orgasm – am I too fast or too slow? It’s confusing until I tell you that my conservative religious upbringing covered up what masturbation was or is.

I had to be a hypocrite for years in order to find my way to making love, physically or spiritually. I would go to church on Sundays, then go home for non-marital sex with boyfriends; feeling guilty, praying I wouldn’t get pregnant while peeing the next morning. That was guilt talkin’ in my head because I expected the IUD in my uterus would keep me safe. I am a nurse after all.

It wasn’t until 1984 when I am 38, that I am able to break the bonds of fear: to leave my church ‘family’; my rebellious spirit fighting to be free – yes, cliché – to be me!

Of course this is a life long process. Now, in my golden years, after being married and divorced four times, experiencing close to 90 lovers (so far); I still struggle to tell myself that I can take my time with a lover. I do say to them, “I want to enjoy the waves of pleasure before I climax.” Yet, I don’t want my partner to have to work too hard: I don’t wish to become a burden; I don’t want him to leave me.

Even when I self-love I tell myself I don’t have to have an orgasm, yet I want one.

Recently, a 30-something black graduate student from Ghana, whom I meet a few times salsa dancing, says, “Let’s go!” after we discuss being ‘friends with benefits’.

While making love, intercourse in action, my antique white iron bed frame supporting the usual box springs and mattress (without the usual hold-in border), lets go of the head corner so that we slide toward the floor. I am laughing so hard; I can’t stop for minutes as my partner appears dumbfounded.

I explode: “Oh god,” that was the best climax ever!