Like many women, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with porn. My first experience as a teenager was a tangle of curiosity and discomfort—an early sexual awakening clouded by confusion and the tension against culturally ingrained messages of shame.
Over time, my feelings evolved into a mix of empowerment, intrigue, and occasional disgust. Mainstream porn’s narrow, often degrading portrayal of sex and women distorted how I viewed my own body and self-worth, especially during those formative years when I was still figuring out my identity and expectations for both sex and relationships. Yet a persistent voice in the back of my mind insisted that erotic content was an avenue worth considering. It felt essential—a tool for understanding my sexuality as I searched for a firmer grasp on the kind of woman I was becoming.
In early adulthood, I discovered written erotica — a form of storytelling that felt richer, more intimate, and unapologetically focused on female pleasure. Lesbian erotica, in particular, became my mainstay, as it offered a safer, female-centered space. Unlike the hard-edged, male-centric lens of most mainstream porn, these stories gave fantasies space to breathe, because I didn’t have to consider men.
I was still drawn to visual porn but found myself wrestling with its ethical landscape, struggling to find content where the actors seemed genuinely engaged rather than performing to please an audience. I found myself questioning what felt affirming versus exploitative, how consent and representation shaped my experience, and confronting uncomfortable gray areas I had previously ignored.
For years, I kept certain fantasies locked away, (lowercase in a vault, as Taylor Swift would say). Motherhood, traditional marriage, and the sheer exhaustion of daily life dulled my sense of personal desire. As my marriage began to falter, I turned back to erotica — what our mothers’ generation might call “romance novels” and what TikTok girlies call “smut” — as a desperate attempt to reignite something — anything — that would make me feel like a fully realized person again. I told myself that if I could “fix” my sex life, I could salvage both my relationship and my sense of self. But deep down, I knew the truth. Beyond the unraveling of my marriage, I was awakening to something deeper: I needed more, a more profound and explosive kind of intimacy and connection than I had ever allowed myself to dream about.
And then I stumbled upon BookTok and the world of modern spicy romance. The characters’ frank discussions about kink, consent play, and explorations of non-traditional relationships often featured male love interests who weren’t afraid of vulnerability, who genuinely cared about their partners’ desires, comfort, and pleasure.
Within the pages of those books, and even more so in the dramatized audiobook versions, I discovered a world that made me both horny and hopeful. For the first time in a long while, I found myself longing not just for sexual satisfaction but for a deeper, emotionally safe connection — one where I could feel desired enough to share my fantasies and curiosities, even if I wasn’t sure I wanted to act on them.
Audiobooks heightened the experience even further. Hearing those stories performed out loud reawakened parts of me I had pushed aside since becoming a mother. I realized my sexual self hadn’t disappeared just because I had three kids; I had simply stopped believing I deserved to feel desired in that way, or that there was even a place for this part of being a woman when raising children. It felt selfish to want more.
Smutty stories reignited my imagination, but they also left me craving more. It quickly became evident that I needed a partner who could meet my sexual needs and emotional depth, someone who could embrace both. My marriage had been over, emotionally and mentally, for quite some time; these realizations of my unhappiness, unfulfillment, and loss of self were the final wakeup call that it was time to pull the plug.
When I discovered Quinn, an audio erotica app offering immersive, female-centered stories, it was a new kind of self-discovery. And suddenly, I was masturbating every single day, multiple times. I was a woman possessed. I was the mother in the movie Pleasantville seeing color for the first time. And it was exhilarating, learning about my body and how to touch myself, discovering the sensual sounds or phrases that sent a rush of warmth all throughout my limbs.
Eventually, I found a partner who not only shared my desires but helped me explore them more openly than I ever had before. We exchange voice memos, discuss fantasies, and send each other passages from books or audio clips that turn us on. We check in with each other regularly, talking through every idea and curiosity without pressure or shame.
Things I once thought were beyond my reach — like being on the receiving end of voracious cunnilingus sessions — have become exciting challenges and sensual games. My partner is not only thrilled by my body and pleasure, but genuinely curious about what else I’m thinking and how I feel during sex.
In an ironic twist, I haven’t used audio erotica in months. Through this journey, I realized what I needed in a partner, and now he sends me personalized versions of what I want to hear — free of charge.
In the end, what struck me most was that men who speak like the characters in those spicy novels or in the audio erotica scripts aren’t just always fictional fantasies. I had spent so long believing that this kind of sexual and emotional connection was impossible outside of fiction. But it isn’t. I finally allowed myself to believe I could have — and deserve — a partner who meets me there, fully and unapologetically. And thanks to audio erotica and the safe, non-judgmental space it created for my imagination, I’m having the best sex of my entire life.
