Stories are written by people who don’t necessarily work or study in fields related to sexology. They convey emotions, perceptions, and subjective perspectives. Opinions voiced in the stories are those of their authors, and in no way represent the position of Les 3 sex*.

Ce témoignage est aussi disponible en français [➦].

Translated by Gabrielle Baillargeon-Michaud.

It’s 7:30 PM. My palms are sweaty, and there’s this knot in my stomach. I’ve changed outfits three times already. A skirt, a pair of jeans, or a dress? A T-shirt, a (somewhat) low-cut sweater, or a blouse? Even my black lace underwear didn’t escape scrutiny.

Calm down, it’s just a date.

He picks me up, and we head out for a drink at a bar—classic. The conversation flows easily, and he’s quite cute, very much my type. I’m glad I swiped right. I drink a bit more than usual, hoping to loosen up and calm down the blue butterflies in my stomach.

Throughout the evening, my thoughts oscillate between reason and passion. The chemistry is undeniable, and I find my desire for physical intimacy intensifying. Soon enough, we find ourselves kissing.

It’s 1:20 AM. We decide to leave the bar and head to his place.

I’m thrilled, yet I feel uncertain. I feel pressure, not from this guy, but from something else—something invisible yet overwhelmingly powerful. It feels as though everyone is watching me, eager to see if I’ll take the next step. I’m torn, feeling judged even before anything has happened.

I decide to embrace the moment, driven by what I want right here, right now, with this man I’ve gotten to know tonight. Because I cannot suppress my excitement—it radiates through every inch of my body, my skin warming, my hands, my sex. It’s as if all my fears have evaporated, leaving my mind clear of any distractions. I’m nervous, but it’s an exhilarating nervousness. So yes, I choose this path—the one of a woman embracing her sexuality on the first night.

“Easy girl,” as they say.

Then it happens. This person, whom I had only just discovered my attraction to, now stares at my black lace and vulnerability. I’m exposed before him, and it feels like more than just showing skin; it’s about trusting him enough to scrutinize every imperfection I despise on my body. It’s about being brave enough to show my true self. A consensual, thrilling, passionate encounter. The pleasure of physical closeness. My blue butterflies go wild. Our mutual desire transforms our encounter into passionate lovemaking.

Days pass, and my joy turns into guilt. Having embraced my sexuality, I now seem to pay the price. No news, no calls, no texts. I’ve imagined every scenario and reason why, yet my confusion is palpable. I feel silly and embarrassed. It’s not the absence of news that hurts; it’s wondering if we went too far.

Because as we know, a girl who puts out on the first night is a turn-off.

That’s when I took notice of the pressure that girls face, which is almost nonexistent for boys. What if the roles were reversed?

It’s 1:20 AM. We decide to leave the bar and go to my place.

The tension is palpable; we both feel it. We give in to our sexual urges.

He surrenders to his desires; he’s chosen the path of someone who knows what he wants, here and now, with me, the girl he met tonight.

We call him a “lover.”

Then it happens. You know the rest. We had sex. In the days that followed, I chose not to call him. Yet, he received praise from his friends.

Because as we know, a guy who sleeps with his date on the first night knows what he wants.

He felt worthy. The way people treated him gave him unshakeable confidence. He scored on his first night. I even told my friends about him. They thought he was hot. They thought I was too hard on him. 

In both instances, it’s the man who comes out ahead, leaving me to grapple with negative feelings. Often, people don’t notice the different standards they apply to men and women. Society conditions women to be emotional and men to be ambitious. These roles are so deeply embedded that we might unknowingly judge someone’s actions based on their gender. I acted just as he did, yet I was the one criticized. 

I consider myself lucky. It only happened once. I’ve asked myself all these questions, but no label sticks to me. However, I feel bad for any girl who has to live with one every day. Every time people use the words “easy girl”, black butterflies appear in her stomach. And they’re a heavy burden to bear. 

After this experience, I stopped debating whether to wear a turtleneck or a low-cut top. Whether to appear more attractive or reserved. I decided to simply be a woman who owns her sexual desires and chooses to act on them or not, as I see fit.

If I must live with black butterflies, then I will tame them until we replace “easy girl” with “empowered woman.”