Content Warning: This article discusses themes of consent, intimacy, and trauma.
Introduction
My first experience with intimacy came at a time when I was still finding my footing in the world, and it left a lasting imprint that has taken years to process. Moving to Japan as a young adult, I was in an unfamiliar place, filled with the excitement of new experiences yet holding onto a certain innocence. I was 22, newly arrived in a small town where I was one of the only foreigners. Alone and uncertain, I didn’t have the guidance or self-awareness to navigate intimate relationships with confidence.
In this new environment, I met a woman who became my first in so many ways: first kiss, first touch, and first intimate encounter—all within a single day. When I disclosed my inexperience, she brushed it aside, seemingly expecting me to embody the stereotype of the assertive, knowledgeable male. Before I fully grasped what was unfolding, I found myself in a situation I wasn’t ready for and didn’t fully want. I wasn’t given the chance to consent actively or to say no—something I would later question, along with my own assumptions about intimacy and masculinity.
The Lasting Impact of My First Experience
This experience quietly echoed through my next relationship with the woman who would become my wife, shaping a subtle narrative around intimacy. I entered relationships with the internalized belief that men should “know” what to do and take charge, reinforced by cultural messages about masculinity that demanded confidence and control. I felt pressure to live up to these expectations, often sidelining my own comfort and boundaries in the process.
The impact on my marriage was particularly complex. My wife’s ongoing health challenges made intimacy something we approached with schedules and intention, turning what should have been moments of connection into calculated tasks. Spontaneity and organic intimacy became associated with specific goals—conception, duty, or meeting one person’s needs. Over time, I began to see intimacy as a chore, drained of connection and burdened by expectation. This belief led me to question my need for sexual gratification, seeing it as an unwelcome burden and wondering if we would be better off without it.
This pattern made intimacy feel mechanical, a means to an end rather than a mutually fulfilling experience rooted in trust. Looking back, I can see how that first experience planted seeds of confusion around intimacy, shaping my perception of consent, boundaries, and the role I thought I had to play. This experience also touched on deep pain points: worthiness, fear of abandonment, and a pattern of over-giving. These elements combined to make me attentive and sensitive to my partner’s pleasure but also conditioned me never to voice my own needs, wants, or desires. It taught me that my sexual desires were not valid or worthy of consideration.
Questioning Masculine Stereotypes and Social Expectations
It’s uncomfortable to admit, even to myself, that I didn’t want that first experience as it happened. As a man, acknowledging a lack of consent feels deeply taboo. Culturally, men are often expected to be sexually aggressive, knowledgeable, and assertive, and if we aren’t, our masculinity is questioned. This lack of communication and clarity around boundaries and the absence of verbal consent became patterns I carried into later relationships, subconsciously viewing intimacy as something expected rather than experienced with intention and respect.
Reflecting on Boundaries, Consent, and Self-Respect
This journey has taught me that consent is a shared responsibility, requiring ongoing communication and mutual respect. Just as a man’s willingness or interest isn’t a given, a woman’s body isn’t an automatic invitation. True intimacy requires both partners to feel safe, heard, and free from expectations—concepts that feel far removed from my early experiences.
Conclusion
Questioning the narratives that stem from our first intimate experiences is difficult, especially for men. We’re not often given the space to reflect on or even admit discomfort or lack of consent in early sexual experiences. I now understand that boundaries and consent are essential for everyone, and that includes men.
Is this why I now identify so strongly with asexuality? Is this why I find comfort in giving pleasure rather than receiving it in a grounded way? These lingering questions remind me that healing is a journey, and reaching core trauma points requires patience, courage, and time.
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