This can be a touchy subject for some people.
Some people can get offended. Or opinionated. Or have any number of reactions.
But the fact of it is, whether you have it or not, it’s part of life and a part of us. And it complicates everything, whether you do it or not.
But if you’re particularly sensitive to the subject, please feel free to scurry off. Don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble or rub anyone’s fur the wrong way.
Sex. Intimacy. Banging. Procreation (oi). Making love. Screwing. Copulation (that sounds odd, do they call it that anymore?). Eff-ing. Fornication. Sleeping around/together. Fooling around. Mating. Nooky. Intercourse. Going all the way. Whoopee (really?). The horizontal mambo. Getting laid. Shagging…whatever.
It’s one of the ways we connect. We look for love in it. We use it to fulfill our needs. We do it to solve our problems. It’s our drug, and we dose as we see fit. We sell it and we buy it. We have a million names for it. We use the internet to watch it and we read about it. And we often abuse it.
And I want it. Badly.
I don’t know about some women. I mean, I’ve heard we get a bad rep for having a low “drive”. But whoever they’re getting this stereotype from, it wasn’t me. I want it. Very often. Badly. Which seems to be the issue while being single, trying to be responsible, having a lack of a social life, and having my hopes dashed when Mr. Interested is about as savvy as a rock. I have a very high drive, bordering on obsessive. Even when I was getting some action daily, I was still very..hyperfocused. I don’t know why. I can’t help it.
Often times, as a single mom, I feel like there’s an unstated rule that I’m neither supposed to want, have, or feign interest in sex. I’m not supposed to act too desperate (which includes stating that I want it), but I can’t be so uninterested that I turn guys away. It’s a balancing act. And I hate it. I want sex, and that doesn’t make me sleazy or cheap or easy. It makes me human. It makes me real. I wish I didn’t sometimes, so that I could seem less desperate (and save myself from aching). But I can’t change it.
As a single mom, I get stressed out. As a mom period, I think that it’s a given to be stressed but when you have no one there to help you…it’s tripled. I only have two arms! But as soon as a waiting list comes out for extra bionic limbs, I’m going to be the first one in line.
Back to being stressed out…I am. And the more stressed and frustrated I get, the more lonely and incredibly horny I get. I have no one there to help with my baby problems and I have no one there to help me with the loneliness that keeps growing lately. There’s no one to fill my mind and my time with smiles and little flirty gestures, or something better. I have all sorts of fantasies about solving my noted impulse to get laid out, which is not helpful. It’s not helpful 1. because I have no way of quenching it–not the way I need at least (some things just need another person)–and no prospect within the forseeable future, and 2. Because the closest person who could be of “use” is someone who I definitely should not be considering. *Shut up libido, you’re not the one who’ll be left crying.*
Now, some of you out there may say that I could go out and find a “willing participant”. True. I could. But I just don’t work that way. I need more. A connection. A relationship. At times, considering my aching desire, this seems like a foolish notion. But my heart knows I’m doing the right thing and warns me of the residual pain if I move forward and further adapt my principles to fit my needs.
Some things just aren’t worth the aftermath.
Nevertheless, I can’t help feeling it.
And (unhelpfully) it’s been everywhere lately. In my face like a steak in front of a dog, taunting me. You’d think with all the Christmas specials going around, I would be able to avoid it. No such luck. And I can’t help thinking, *Aaaannnd, you’re the devil*, every time I see something particularly..”mouthwatering”, let’s call it (cause somehow “stimulating” just sounds a little…south).
Before you lose your virginity, there are all sorts of opinions and stories about what sex IS. Some people say that it’s fantastic, others that it’s sinful and should be avoided (or worse, that it’s just meh). They boast at the beauty of such a deep connection, and it being “right”: an emotional, physical and mental bonding. It’s freedom. It’s a pure spiritual entwining. And then some treat it as an animalistic action, like running or cooking dinner: something that you do, have fun (sometimes), and then get on with life. The movies paint it to be glamorous, all candles or rain-soaked passion. Perfect.
Life teaches it differently. In life you lose your virginity in the back of a car, or on the bathroom floor, or at a party. It’s often quick and unadorned with any of the miraculous ideas or beauty that you imagined beforehand. Yay life. Yay you.
It often doesn’t matter how you were raised, what you were taught, or what you promised yourself you’d do, we’re people and we make choices that change our lives. Whether bad or good.
What they don’t tell you is that sex is like crack. Yes, crack. That white powder that people get hooked to quicker than crows on deer carcass. I suppose sex is also kinda like potato chips, or whatever snack food you fancy. It’s deathly hard to have “just one”. Either way..Once you open that door to bliss, you cannot shut it. It’s open forever. And your mind is eternally changed. All the jokes you didn’t get, innuendos made incognito in your presence, or the “wrestling” pictures you sometimes see 5 year olds making (much to their parents embarrassment) are suddenly illuminated. It’s like an understanding takes place, a communion with the universe. A huge cosmic laugh and an “ah ha” later, and VOILA!–you’re never the same. Suddenly you can’t stop it. You can’t stop thinking about it or wanting it or getting all knotted because of it.
It’s awful. They should have told me. But I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have listened.
They also don’t tell you that it opens up a door to your heart. That sex can wiggle its way in and hurt you. That it fuses to your emotions and your dreams and your hopes. That it becomes a part of you, like one of those ugly spider-egg things from Alien movies–sometimes it just wants to burst out and eff someone up (though I’ve never actually had the urge to kill everyone I see, I do feel like something is eating its way/bursting out of me).
I’ve had it good, and I’ve had it very awful. I can’t remember if I’ve had it beautiful. But I want it.
Some nights it feels like imploding, others it’s a dull hum, and still other nights it’s imperceivable.
Being single is hard. But being miserable is harder, so for now I’m considering it a better choice to just be craving something I’ll one day have (hopefully I won’t be 40 before the next time around), than living the day-to-day with the Ex or the Him from earlier.
Will it stop me from fantasizing? Unlikely.
So for now, it’s just me….Imploding. Desperately imploding. Dying. And wanting it. Badly.