'The simple sex trick that cured my bedroom insecurity.'

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When I was younger, I found sex extremely daunting.

No one had ever given me a real conversation — or education — on how to engage with it, let alone how to feel about it. So when I first started finding myself in intimate situations, I felt like I was fumbling around in the dark (literally and figuratively).

Do I initiate things, or is that too forward? If it doesn't feel good, what do I say? 

The stakes felt impossibly high, and I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that I really didn't want to do it wrong. So, I built a character for myself. I built a few, actually. 

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At the time, I was working in restaurants, where being on shift felt like being on stage.

I'd slip into different versions of myself depending on the crowd, the energy, the table I was serving. I learned that creating little personas not only made my job easier, it made me better at it. And somewhere along the line, I thought: why not try it in the bedroom, too?

Here's how it started.

One night, I got a text from a man I'd known for years. He was a little older, handsome in that Simon Baker in The Mentalist kind of way. I'd spotted him everywhere over the years—first at a café down the road from my parents' house, later at a restaurant I frequented with my friends, then in wine distribution.

We ran in the same circles, he was one of those people who seemed to orbit my life without us ever really crossing paths.

I'd always had a crush on him, and when I finally got old enough for it not to be wildly inappropriate, word must've gotten back to him—because suddenly, there he was in my DMs.

He invited me over to his place (a beautiful big house in a lush suburb) for a gin and tonic and a swim. I was nervous as hell, so I gave myself a pep talk.

I pulled on my vintage-style black and white one-piece and decided I wasn't just going for a swim. I was stepping into a scene. I told myself I was the girl he desired, the one he wanted to seduce. All I had to do was enjoy it. 

I found myself feeling more confident as I arrived. I accepted the gin and tonic he'd made, complete with basil and strawberries, as though I'd expected him to be so thought-out. I slipped into his pool as though I got in my bathers around attractive men I'd had crushes on for years all the time, flirting with a casual confidence that pleasantly surprised me.

So, by the time his hand found my waist under the water, when he pulled me in and kissed me, I didn't shrink back the way I usually did. I played the girl I wanted to be that night—assured, playful, still nervous but bold enough to let it show.

The shift was extraordinary. Especially when we had sex.

Instead of being overwhelmed when he took off my clothes, I felt… present. Not meek or apologetic, not bracing for judgement with every new body part he uncovered. I was able to relax in moments I'd never been able to before; when he went down on me, when he asked me what I liked.

I lent into my naivety and told him that I honestly didn't know what I'd like, but I'd like him to show me what I could like; that I was on a shameless quest of self-discovery. Because it was true!

It's like it took me playing a part, in order to be honest. It was 'fake it 'til you make it', but in the bedroom. 

It's funny, looking back. I thought the persona was protective armour—but really, it was me giving myself permission.

Permission to let go, to stop clinging to control, to maybe not know what I was doing, to figure it out in the moment, to fumble, to surprise myself. Because we're only ever in charge of our own experience, right? Never someone else's. 

For a long time, that's how I navigated intimacy — slipping into different versions of myself to feel braver, bolder, more in control. But something shifted when I fell in love.

It's my third time being in love, and this time feels more real and steady than the others — and I've found myself letting go of my persona more than ever before. When you're in love, performing feels wrong. Because how can you be truly vulnerable with someone if you're still playing a part?

And yet, I've started to wonder if the answer isn't as simple as abandoning her altogether. Maybe my persona is a very real version of me. She's the part of me who's open to new things, who gives me confidence when I stumble, who lets me try without fear of failing.

That realisation hit me recently when I went to a sex party with my partner. I went in without a persona. I felt emotional, raw, and weighed down by outside factors I couldn't seem to shake—and it made for a really difficult (and very unsexy) night for both of us.

I don't regret it, because I learned so much about myself, about him, and about how we work together. But it showed me the power of having a persona to support you.

Next time, I wouldn't think twice about slipping into one if I felt it could help. Not as a bandaid, but as a way to keep me open, curious, and playful when things feel complicated and heavy. She's not there to cover me up — she's more like a secret weapon.

I shared this with my boyfriend, and asked him how he'd feel if I were to put on a persona in a sexual situation. Not quite like roleplay, but kinda; a version of myself that is outside who I am in the everyday. The experience excited him. "I'd love to meet other sides of you, especially in sex!" he said. 

And so I have, since. I've been rediscovering the version of myself I was outside of a relationship, when I was just figuring things out, when I felt less pressure to be completely vulnerable with the person I was intimate with, when pleasure was more about discovery—what I liked, what I wanted. 

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What I've learned is that letting your partner see your different personas can actually be a gift. It shows them a richer version of who you are—not just the comfortable, everyday self, but the one who emerges when you're outside your comfort zone.

Who are you when you're uncertain? Who are you when you push past your edges? Because those are important parts of us too.

And having a persona in intimacy doesn't mean you're being fake. It isn't dissociation—it's not checking out. If anything, it can make you more present. It can quiet the inner critic long enough for you to enjoy the moment as you want to.

Sometimes, that little bit of play is what brings you closer to yourself, and to the person you love.

Feature Image: Getty