It’s been three months, four weeks and three days since I last had sex. Not that I’m counting. At least, not for desperation’s sake. Not yet. No, no. I started counting after I read about that Chinese man who cut off his penis because he was so depressed about being single he didn’t think he’d need his genitals for sex anymore.
I wonder how long would I need to go without sex to get to that place in my head where I cut off my clit in a crazy act of ignorance and despair. Four months? Seven months? A year?
I’ve done a year and kept my optimism and lady bits in tact. Nevertheless, there is some familiar scenery creeping into my life’s landscape at the moment. I’m starting to hit Desperation Slope – that moment just after the Peak of So Horny I Will Hump The Table and just before the Plateau of Sleeping Vagina. It’s a landscape I know well. I visit this place after most break-ups.
See, after the demise of a relationship I tend to hibernate, sexually speaking. I’m not one of those ‘get under someone to get over someone’ types. I need time to snivel and sob about my broken heart and lament my lost love and their bits that I grew fond of.
Basically, if I’m still crying into my pillow after a wank, I don’t consider myself ready to sleep with someone else. Thems the rules.
And maybe it takes four months, maybe it takes a year, but I’ll try to only have sex with someone again when I’m fully able to be 100% present. Thinking about Mr Man 1 while you’re sexing Mr Man 2 is just depressing. So I try to avoid it.
But here’s the thing: There’s a stigma attached to not having sex. People pull confused faces or get that pity look that morphs into consolation for your evident weirdness if you mention that you haven’t shagged in a while. Like, two weeks. As if someone just told them Miley Cyrus is actually just Justin Bieber playing dress-up.
I don’t want to be judged for how much I shag – or for how little. I pity asexuals this experience.
Still, I can’t help feeling concerned for myself. Once you’ve entered the Plateau of Sleeping Vagina it can be difficult to follow the exit signs back to Shagville. Just ask a woman who’s fallen out of lust with her significant other, but won’t leave the relationship or do something about it. It’s like her horny hormones go on strike, shutting down her happy bits and making her say shit like: ‘Sex just doesn’t matter to me anymore.’
Maybe it doesn’t, but maybe she just missed the exit and got stuck on the plateau! That’s what happened to Lima before she decided to take her sexual pleasure into her own hands.
Look, ‘dry spells’ don’t have to be dry. There’s a lot of playing and self-exploration that can happen. When I say I had a year of ‘no sex’, what I mean is: I didn’t have sexual intercourse with someone. But I did start exploring Tantra and BDSM and enjoyed more dance and touch therapies. I also wanked a lot.
But, yeah. In my world, nothing beats really awesome sex with someone I like and I’m a great believer in the sexsosophy: ‘The more you do it, the more you want to do it.’ Unfortunately, I’m also a believer in the frightening alternative: ‘If you don’t use it, you lose it’ … A point terrifyingly illustrated in literal Technicolor by our self-Bobbiting Chinese man.
So, to be on the safe side of Desperation Slope, I have Mr Muscle on speed dial – I’ll make a forced exit to Shagville if I have to. Maybe. I might just finish this season rerun of Empire first.