I Wanted to Be Wanted More Than I Wanted Sex

I thought this episode was going to be about sex.

Turns out, it was about something far more uncomfortable.

The difference between being needed and being wanted. The way a dead bedroom can slowly make you feel invisible. And how bloody easy it is to confuse attention, chemistry and desire with something deeper when you’ve spent years wondering whether anybody will ever look at you that way again.

I talk about divorce, living alone for the first time at 47, body image, dating again, the terrifying thought of getting naked in front of somebody new—and the question women are rarely taught to ask:

Do I actually want him… or do I just want to be wanted?

This one is raw, funny, a little confronting—and probably the most honest I’ve been yet.

Transcript

Welcome To Unfinished And Unapologetic

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Welcome to Unfinished and Unapologetic, the podcast where we get into the nitty-gritty of real life, starting over and figuring out who the hell we are now. No filter, no shame, a little messy, still not done. I'm your host, Paige. And if you're a woman over 40 who's ready to embrace the chaos, unpack the bullshit, and navigate the next chapter of your life without pretending you've got it all together, you're in the right place. Let's dive in together.

Being Wanted More Than Sex

SPEAKER_00 0:40

I'm gonna be honest, I nearly didn't record this episode. Not because I don't want to talk about sex. I've talked about divorce, mental illness, loneliness, chronic pain. Hell, I've admitted things on this podcast I haven't admitted to some of my closest friends. But this one feels different because I don't actually think this episode is about sex. Not really. I think it's about being wanted. And if I'm really honest, I've spent far more of my life wanting to be wanted than actually wanting sex. Fuck. That feels gross saying out loud. Because I'm 51 years old, so surely by now I'm supposed to be evolved, independent, completely healed, above all that. You know, lighting candles for myself and saying things like, I don't need external validation. Except, yeah, apparently sometimes I do. Or at least I did. And I don't think I'm the only one. I think there are a lot of women listening to this who've been married, divorced, widowed, or single for years. Women who have raised kids and forgot themselves. Women who spent decades being needed and then one day realized that they actually didn't know if they were wanted anymore. And there is a difference. Being needed is where are my keys? What's for dinner? Can you pick this up? Do you know where my work shirt is? Being wanted is somebody looking at you and you know exactly what that look means. Very different energy. And maybe you've looked in the mirror lately and thought, Jesus, when did I start looking like my mother? Sorry, mum, I love you. But seriously, when did my neck become like this? Why do my knees suddenly feel like they've lived a harder life than I have? And why the bloody hell do I make a noise every time I stand up? I don't decide to make the noise. It just comes out like my body is providing its own sound effects now. But underneath all the jokes, there's this tiny little fear hiding. One that we're not really supposed to admit. Am I still attractive? Would anybody want me now? Not love me or admire me, not think I'm a good mum or tell me how strong I am. God knows, we're all so sick of being told we're fucking strong. I mean want me. And even saying that out loud makes me feel a little cringe. Because women our age are supposed to be above all that. We're supposed to say, I don't need a man. I am enough. I'm living my best life. And yes, all of that can be true. I don't need a man to pay my bills. I bought my own house. I've built my own life. I can put my own bins out. Do I enjoy it? No. But I can do it. And still, sometimes you want somebody to look at you like you're the last Tim Tam in the packet. And that doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. I've been loved, I've been used, I've been adored, I've been ignored. I've had relationships that looked fine on the outside and nearly broke me on the inside. I've been somebody's whole world and I've

Choosing Them Not Just Attention

SPEAKER_00 4:25

been made to feel completely forgettable. And somewhere in amongst all of that, I forgot to ask myself one really fucking important question. Not do they want me, but do I even want them? Because if I'm honest, there have been many times in my life where I didn't stop to ask. I was just relieved somebody chose me. Shit, there's an uncomfortable truth. Tell me I'm not the only woman who's done that. Ignored the red flags because the attention felt nice. Stayed too long because being alone felt scary. Mistook chemistry for compatibility. Obsession for love. Incistency for mystery. Mistook breadcrumbs for the whole fucking bakery. Honestly, if emotional stupidity burnt calories, I'd have abs. But I don't think women arrive at that point because we're stupid. I think we were taught from a ridiculously young age that being wanted is the prize. The prince, the wedding, the happily ever after, the man who can't live without you, the grand romantic gesture, the ring, the soulmate, pick me, choose me, love me. And nobody really taught us how to ask, but do I want this? Does this feel good to me? Do I feel safe here? Do I even like this person? Or do I just like that they like me? Jesus, that question could have saved me years. Because when a relationship ends, especially when you've built a whole life around, there's grief, obviously. But underneath the grief, there's often other questions quietly chewing through you. Was I not enough? Was I prettier before? Skinnier? Younger, less emotional, less complicated, less tired, less me. Was I too needy? Too independent, too loud, too broken, too much, not enough. And maybe you've never said those words out loud, but I bet my left ovary you've thought them at least once. I know I have. And for some women, that fear doesn't start after the relationship ends. It starts while you're still in it.

Dead Bedrooms And Quiet Grief

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So let's talk about dead bedrooms. Yep, we're going there. Because nobody warns you what that does to your head. When the months go by, then years maybe, and the intimacy doesn't end in a big dramatic explosion, it just disappears on you quietly. And at first you made excuses. You're tired, they're stressed, the kids are young, work's busy, life's hard, somebody has a headache, somebody has resentment, somebody stop trying. Then eventually you stop talking about it. Because the rejection hurts, and pretending you don't care hurts a little less. So you act like it doesn't matter. You tell yourself sex isn't everything, which is true, but being touched matters. Being kissed for no reason matters. Somebody putting their hand on your back as they walk past matters. Feeling like a woman, not just a housemate with excellent admin skills matters. But then one day you realize you can't remember the last time somebody looked at you like they wanted you. Not needed you, wanted you. And maybe there are a thousand reasons. Maybe nobody's the villain. Maybe two people just got tired, disconnected, lost. But that doesn't stop the grief. Because it is grief. You grieve the woman who used to flirt, the woman who felt sexy, the woman who didn't analyze every angle of her body before taking her clothes off. The woman who didn't think, maybe this part of my life is over. And I think that's one of the cruelest lies that women are sold. That desire has an expiry date. That sexy belongs to the younger women. That wrinkles make you invisible. That once you've had kids or hit menopause or been divorced, that that's it. Game over. Fuck that. That's absolute bullshit. But here's the annoying part. You can know it's bullshit and still feel it. You can tell every other woman her body is beautiful, then stand there naked in front of your own mirror like you're reviewing evidence at a crime scene. We are so kind to other women about their bodies, but our own, apparently we hold it to a standard last scene in 1987. And when you've spent years feeling invisible, the first person who makes you feel desirable again can feel like magic.

Living Alone And Feeling Desired

SPEAKER_00 9:59

When I first started living alone at 47, that difference between being needed and being wanted got very bloody loud. For the first time in my adult life, nobody needed me in the room. Nobody was asking where something was. Nobody was waiting for dinner. Nobody was rolling over beside me at night. And part of that freedom felt incredible. I could do what I wanted, go where I wanted, put something down, and miracle of all miracles, it was still there when I came back. But there were also quiet moments when I thought, is this it now? Will anybody ever look at me that way again? Not because I couldn't survive alone. I already knew I could. But surviving alone and never wanting to be touched again are not the same bloody thing. So, confession time. It took me a really long time after my divorce to get to a place where I remotely wanted to let another man into my life. And then when I did, I found myself in my first ever situationship. God, I hate that word. It sounds like a medical condition. I'm sorry, Paige. The results are back. You have a situationship. Is there a crane for that? But that's what it was. Not really together, not really casual, not really secure, not really anything I could confidently explain to another adult. And at the time, it kind of felt incredible. Because I'd come out of a marriage where the intimacy was dead. Not bad, not awkward, dead. And again, I don't just mean the sex. I mean feeling invisible, undesirable, feeling like I was everything. Except a woman somebody actually wanted. And then along comes this man. And suddenly I feel sexy again. Desired, beautiful, interesting, like maybe I hadn't expired after all. And if you've felt invisible for years, holy shit, that feeling is intoxicating. That first compliment you actually believe. The first kiss. The first time somebody touches you and you realize your body didn't forget. The first time somebody looks at you and you think, oh my God, I've still got it. And honestly, that feeling was magical. And I don't regret it. Not for a second. Because I needed something from that experience. I needed to know sexy wasn't something I'd left behind in my twenties. I needed to know desire wasn't reserved for younger women. I needed to know I was still in there. But and here's where I had to slap myself upside the head. I let myself get swept up in it all. I mistook being desired for being loved. Big difference. Because when you've been starving, even crumbs taste like a feast. And when somebody gives you attention, validation, affection, and touches you like in matter, it's very easy to start writing a story that only exists in your own head. And I knew I wasn't falling in love with him, not even close. But I was falling in love with who I got to be when he looked at me.

unknown 13:42

Fuck.

SPEAKER_00 13:43

There it is. That is probably the most honest thing I can say about it. I liked her, the woman I was when I felt wanted. She was playful, confident, sexy, less afraid. But somewhere along the way, I made myself believe that he was the one responsible for keeping her alive. And that was never gonna end well. But I think maybe I needed what it meant to me to mean more to him than it actually did. And that's not entirely on him. Sometimes people disappoint us. And sometimes we hand them responsibilities that they never agreed to carry. Like proving we're lovable or worthy or desirable or that we're not going to be alone forever. And that's a hell of a job to give another human being. Especially when deep down it's a job nobody can actually do for us. They can make us feel wanted, but they can't build our entire worth and keep it standing for us. And bugger me if that wasn't a hard lesson to learn. So here's an uncomfortable

When Sex Is Asking For Love

SPEAKER_00 15:00

question. And if you don't like it, feel free to yell at me in your car. How many times have you had sex because you wanted love? Not sex, love. Yep, straight into the deep end. Sorry, not sorry. Because I think a lot of women, especially women my age, weren't taught to ask, what do I want? We were taught, how do I keep him happy? How do I stay attractive? How do I be easy to love? How do I keep the peace? How do I stop him from leaving? And I look back now and see there were times I wasn't having sex because I was desperate to rip somebody's clothes off. I was having sex because I wanted closeness, connection, reassurance, to feel loved, to feel chosen, to feel safe. Sometimes sex wasn't me saying, I want you. It was me quietly asking, Do you still love me? Are we okay? Will you stay? Am I enough now? And that's heartbreaking to admit. Because sex can look mutual from the outside while one person is using it to ask a question the other person doesn't even know they're answering. Maybe you've done that too. Maybe you've said yes, hoping it would bring you closer, hoping they'd be affectionate afterwards, hoping it would fix the distance, hoping this time they'd love you the way you loved them. And maybe they did, and maybe they didn't. But I reckon there are a lot of women listening right now thinking, holy shit, I've never admitted that. Me neither, until now. And I don't think there's any shame in it. I really don't. We all do the best we can with what we know at the time. But there really is something sad about reaching this age and realizing you've spent decades learning everybody else. What they like, what they need, what keeps them happy, what makes them stay, and almost no time learning yourself. So tell me, what do you like? Not your favorite wine or TV show or holiday destination. I'm in what do you like? What turns you on? What makes you feel sexy? What makes you feel safe enough to let go? What makes you shut down? What do you want? And if your answer is I have no bloody idea, you're so unbelievably not alone. Because I think a lot of us were taught to be wanted, not to want, to be attractive, not to desire, to be chosen, not to choose. We knew how to look desirable, but we didn't necessarily know how to own desire. And they are not the same thing. One asks, how do you look? And the other asks, how does this feel to me? That second question, she's newer. At least she is for me. Because I've spent most of my life being somebody something. A daughter, a wife, a mum, a partner, a carer, a fixer, a peacekiver, useful, reliable, needed. And somewhere in amongst all that, I forgot I was allowed to be a woman too. Not just loved, not just needed, not just useful, desired, playful, curious, sexual. Yep, I said sexual at 51. Call the fucking police. Society gets so bloody weird when women our age admit we still want sex. Like we're supposed to quietly fade into beige cardigans, take up gardening and become grandmothers who bake. And listen, I love a good cardi, and I fully intend to be a Grammy who bakes, but those things do not require me to hand in my vagina at reception. I refuse to believe desire has an expiry date. But I also don't want to swing so far the other way that we turn sex into another thing women are supposed to perform correctly. You don't have to be wildly sexual to prove you're liberated. You don't have to date. You don't have to download an app or get naked in front of anybody. You don't have to want sex at all. Maybe after a heartbreak or divorce or betrayal, sex is the last thing on your mind. Maybe you're healing, maybe your body hurts. Maybe menopause has taken your libido and packed its bags and fucked off without even leaving a forwarding address. Maybe you miss sex, maybe you don't. Maybe you want intimacy but not penetration. Maybe you want affection without another person moving into your house and touching your thermostat. All valid. There isn't one correct way to be a woman over 50. The point isn't that you should want more sex. The point is you're allowed to know what you want and you're allowed to change your mind. You're allowed to say yes because you mean yes, and no without writing a six-page explanation and a touching supporting evidence. You're allowed to want tenderness, fun, commitment, casual sex, no sex, a relationship, your own bed, a man who visits and then goes back to his own house before he starts leaving wet towels on your floor, whatever. But it should belong to you, not be something that you do to stay chosen. Which brings me to the terrifying bit.

Body Image And Being Seen

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The first time somebody sees your body again, because nobody warns you about that. You spend decades changing pregnancy, breastfeeding, hormones, weight gain, weight loss, stress, aging, life. And one day you catch your reflection in the mirror and think, who the hell is that? Not even in a horrible way, just surprised because in your head you're still 27, until your back reminds you otherwise. And then you imagine somebody else seeing her. I reckon there are women listening right now who'd rather wrestle a bloody crocodile than get naked in front of somebody new. Lights on? Absolutely not. We're creating ambience. And by ambience, I mean darkness. Not because they're prudish, not because they don't want intimacy, but because somewhere along the way we started believing our bodies had to earn the right to be desired. Flat stomach, therm everything, no scars, no stretch marks, no weird little hairs appearing overnight in places nobody invited them. Honestly, what's with that? And some days I still hear that voice. You're too old, you're too soft, you're too complicated, too damaged, too much. And that voice can absolutely get fucked. Not because I wake up every morning feeling like a sex goddess. I don't. Some mornings I wake up and looking like I've been exhumed. But my body isn't a before photo. It isn't waiting to become acceptable. It's carried pregnancies, pain, stress, grief, medication, hormones, years. It has survived every version of my life. And no, I don't love every inch of it every day. I'm not going to stand here and lie to you. Some days I angle in the mirror. Some days I suck in my stomach. Some days I look at a photo and think, oh, geez, that was deeply unfortunate. But I am trying to stop treating my body like it's personally betrayed me just because it kept aging while I was busy living. And maybe getting naked isn't frightening because we're scared of being naked. Maybe we're scared of being seen. Really seen. The soft bits, the scars, the insecurity, the history. The woman who is confident in one breath and quietly terrified in the next. Maybe the vulnerable part isn't taking your clothes off. Maybe it's letting somebody see you without performing, without trying to be the easiest, sexiest, least complicated version of yourself. Maybe it's being able to say, This is what I like. This is what I don't like. Slow down. Come closer. Not tonight. Yes, no, stay, go home. And trusting that your wants are allowed to take up space too.

Dating With Peace And Clarity

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Now, while we're on the subject of terrifying things, dating. I survived two divorces, raised three kids, bought my own bloody house, and changed careers at 51. But the thought of downloading a dating app makes me want to fake my own death. Honestly, I don't know whether I have trust issues or just experience. I don't know if I'm cautious or guarded, wise or scared. Probably all four. Because trusting somebody after divorce, after disappointment, after betrayal, after discovering forever was apparently a flexible term, that's brave. And I don't date looking for butterflies anymore. Fuck butterflies. Turns out most of mine were anxiety wearing lingerie. That constant wondering, waiting for texts, overthinking punctuation, trying to work out what somebody means instead of paying attention to what they're actually showing you. No thanks. I want attraction, absolutely. I want chemistry. I want to look at somebody and think, well, hello. I'm not dead. But I also want peace, consistency, words and actions that match. Somebody who communicates, who doesn't disappear, who doesn't make me question my worth every second Tuesday? And more than anything, I want to remember to ask: do I actually want him? Or do I want his attention? Do I like him or do I like being liked? Does this connection feel good or does it just feel familiar? Is this chemistry or is it my nervous system recognizing another opportunity to ruin my own life? These are the questions now. Not because I'm healed and wise and never make bad decisions. Please, let's not get carried away. But because I know attention can feel like intimacy when you're lonely. Desire can feel like love when you've felt invisible. And being chosen can feel like safety when you've spent your whole life afraid of being left. I know that now. And knowing it doesn't mean I'll never get it wrong again. It just means I might catch myself sooner. Hopefully, before I build another emotional bakery out of three crumbs and a late-night text. Because here's what I think I want now. I want sex that doesn't have to prove anything. It doesn't have to prove I'm young or beautiful or worthy. It doesn't have to guarantee forever. It doesn't have to fix loneliness. It doesn't have to make somebody stay. It can mean connection. It can mean love. It can mean fun. It can mean nothing more than two adults having a really nice time and then one of them going home before breakfast. I'm not judging. But I don't want to use my body to ask the questions my mouth is too frightened to say. Do you love me? Are we okay? Will you choose me? Am I enough? I want to know the answers to those questions without having to take my clothes off to get it. And yes, I still want to be wanted. And I'm not going to wrap this up with some polished line about never needing validation again. That would be bullshit. I do want someone to look at me like I'm that last Tim Tam in the packet. I want chemistry and to feel sexy. I want sex that makes me temporarily forget my knees are 51. I want to be desired by somebody I desire right back. But I don't want any of it badly enough to disappear inside somebody else again. I don't want sex to be an audition or a peace offering or proof that I'm lovable. And I don't want to be chosen by somebody I haven't even stopped to choose. I want to want, not just be wanted. And maybe that's the difference now. When I was younger, I wanted somebody else to tell me I was desirable. At 51, I want to know what desire feels like when it actually belongs to me. Not because I'm lonely, not because I'm frightened, not because I need somebody to prove I haven't expired. Because I want it, because I choose it.

Closing And Your Next Step

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Because I'm still here, still curious, still sexual, still figuring shit out, and apparently still capable of making myself deeply uncomfortable on a podcast. So I guess this episode was about sex after all. Just not in the way I thought. And fuck me, that took a while. Remember, we're doing this side by side. Every chapter we explore together, I've walked some version of it too. So if today's episode gave you even one thing to think about, feel, question, or try, I'd love to hear how you use it. Until next time, keep embracing the messy, unfinished, and unapologetic you.