noventaysiete

I fear I may be over sex.

With my body count of a whooping one and only a breath into my twenties, I fear it may just not be it for me.

“Try with someone else.” Maybe. It took a long time for this one to happen, so if I am being completely honest, it is looking pretty unlikely.

Here's the problem. Before now, I thought of it as something I'd eventually get to, when I had to. I had no desire, no urge. Had relationships end because I just didn't want it. Walked out of a relationship because according to him, it was sex or nothing. That was a pretty easy decision to make (he was a blabber mouth). I was curious, just not curious enough. Nobody I was with, made me want to act on my curiosity. The thought of it happening actually disgusted me for a while, then I got to the age where it was openly discussed, and the disgust slowly faded. The urge never seemed to come, though. At this point, I had been in multiple relationships, with people I found really physically attractive. Still nothing. It was one of the most natural things ever and I just did not picture myself doing it. Plus, I had read a lot of smut. I just knew real life would absolutely disappoint me. I was right.

I discovered pretty early that I was a pleaser, often to the detriment of my own pleasure and safety. I have a sensitive body. I know that, but I ignored it. I mean, I finally wanted to do this, might as well go all in. I could never say no to him, matter of fact, I never wanted to. Was always ready for his highly suggestive looks and his wandering fingers, the intimacy when our bodies merged, the glorious reward of witnessing him reach his end, especially when I caused it. At first, I stopped looking for the pleasure after I discovered that it wasn't forthcoming. I focused on the intimacy instead, which I guess brought another form of pleasure. A greater form. Never orgasms but some warm fluttering in my chest, especially when he would look at me. He never looked at me like that from outside me. Here, I could see it, and convince myself that the feelings I always doubted he felt might be there after all.

That was all I really wanted, to be fair. Intimacy. So even after the very reluctant orgasms had begun to show face, they mattered little compared to the tender touch of my face mid stroke, the hand holding, the whispers and the kisses.

After it came to a rather abrupt and heart wrenching end, I began to shudder once again at the thought of sex. What had been disinterest was now ptsd of some sort. It began to frighten me, the long unenjoyable sessions and soreness I endured quietly because I desperately sought any semblance of intimacy. Of love.

Medical Procedures are the worst.

Sure, in only a couple of days, the ear-splitting pain will be gone, and my life will slowly return to its delicious monotony. The period though, that I have to go without solid food? Might as well just kill me. I do not eat a lot on any regular shmegular day but take the option of starving myself away from me and you've committed a war crime. I'm sitting here, post custard bowl, thinking of every time I thought I was too good for a plain old plate of rice and stew.

On the plus side though, working from my bed has given a new dimension to my laziness. It's a testament to my resilience that I'm working at all, but it's also made me never want to work anywhere else. With my pillows fluffed all the way up, Netflix playing passively beside me, break time ready if I get sleepy. It's made me never want to consider a 9-5 again.

Still, as relaxed as the one advantage to all this has me, I would trade it all for the crunch of a waffle cone or the sweet first bite of hot boiled yam. Ten times over.

I'm not a writer.

I don't have controversial things to say. I do not have hot topics to discuss. I'm really just a girl with a broken heart looking for a way to deal.

I deleted the first post.

I was not sure how it worked here. I thought I saved a draft and I published, thinking it would remain a draft. So when I saw the view counter, I panicked and deleted immediately. See, I had used names in my “draft” and could not bear the thought of this post reaching the person I wrote about. Chances of that happening are slim to none but rather safe than sorry, I guess.

“Healing isn't linear.” I hear this all the time. I see it in all those heartbreak tiktoks that are intended to be inspirational. I know what it means, but it irritates me. I'm only ever happy to see it after backsliding and checking a post or two. “You did good. It's okay if you slip up a little.” Like an alcoholic that rewards herself with rum while fingering her 3 month chip. Right now, I'm just letting her drink. At least we know we're not waking up in a pool of our vomit. Not anymore.