I was on a first date a few months ago and I was reminiscing with this man-sir-dude about times in my life that I abstained from coitus for a good chunk of hours. Therefore, I discussed 2011 in detail, which was the greatest cunnilingus drought of my century. I had just broken up with my most recent love-guy-boyfriend. I decided to consciously be single for at least 12 months in order to rediscover the me within me and maybe get a job that I like and find a better apartment and acquire some fresh friends. I vowed to not fall into LIKE with any penis that I encountered regardless of how large the brain was attached to it. I knew it would be a distraction from my independence-building so I swore off all serious hangs and opted instead to engage in a couple of free-wheeling casual flings.
Trouble was I had no idea how to go about finding said free-wheeling casual flings. I knew how to go on five dates with an individual and then continue going on dates with them exclusively for two years until that came to a close and then repeating the identical process with another mate. I didn’t known how to meet a person and charm that person via witty convo until that person is naked in your bed and then watch them leave my house and proceed to never speak to me again¦ that was less familiar. That sounded daunting and tragic and anti-climatic. I was naturally frightened of trying something wild and dangerous. I didn’t really want to throw caution to the wind or break down boundaries or do it from behind or spend more money on condoms.
So, I didn’t¦ do¦ that. I abstained (see first sentence) from the whole fornication process for almost an entire year. It was by choice but it also wasn’t by choice. I wasn’t directly hit on by a single homo sapiens until the seal was broken and I eventually kissed some balls. There is definitely a possibility that I was flirted with on occasion. These days I have a superhuman ability to detect if a creature is aroused by my presence. But in 2011, it required them saying I think you are great and can you please come to my place in the next hour or so in order to have the sex using protection with my body? for me to have any inkling that they were interested in my vagina. There were moments of loneliness and horniness, but I generally didn’t seriously miss smashing my genitals against other genitals.
When I informed the man-sir-dude I was on a date with of this no orgasm with another person saga, he was shocked and saddened for my cause. Then I was confused and irritated by his response. He expressed his condolences for my previously dead libido during that troubling period. What do you mean? I was fine, I stated in frustrated reply to his sympathetic hand-holding. It must have been hard for you. That’s such a long time, he wistfully proclaimed, thinking he was agreeing with my disappointment in myself but he was actually inventing said disappointment. It really wasn’t. I mean, it would be for some people. I guess. I thought about sex but it wasn’t that bad. Parts of it were kinda nice, I explained, hoping he would quit it with the comforting therapist act and get back to complimenting my every feature.
How could it be nice? he questioned, now becoming more disgruntled and incredulous and annoyed. I could sense that he wanted me to approve of his definition of how much sex is the right amount of sex to have. I didn’t even have the answer to that question but I could ponder a guess. Three times a week? Biweekly? Every afternoon? Once a full moon? Every other Thanksgiving? Each day of Hanukah? Always on statutory holidays? Never on Mondays? Whatever the quantity was, this man-sir-dude had the number locked down. He wanted me to weep in his arms and mourn the valuable portion of my youth that I lost to non-fucking. He wanted me to confess that I thought about going down on private parts 24/7 and my lust for the thrust was excruciating. He wanted me to admit that it was the most depressed I had ever been and that I wouldn’t wish that puritanical torture upon my randiest enemy.
But, instead I just kept rolling my eyes with every sorrowful word he spoke in my direction. He confessed that he can’t go two weeks without having sex. I replied Okay. Well, it’s good that you know what your body wants. When I emphasized the your in the sentence he furrowed his brow and tilted his head at an angle that criticized my specification of his theory. That’s what most bodies want, he corrected me, highly confident in his mansplaining. I proceeded to accurately correct him No, it’s not, and with that came the conclusion of our potential romance. He was irritated by my open-minded, accepting sex-of-all-kinds positive outlook. He wanted me to approve of his “brilliance” and I wasn’t going to. I am incapable of approving of an opinion I strongly oppose. I think if I ever did that, my brain would instantly put me into a coma assuming that an alien host had taken lover and I was sci-fi possessed.
Here is an opinion I do approve of (and it’s mine so obviously it’s the best one): there is no right amount of sex to have. Every person is different and has different needs and histories and urges and relationships and circumstances and priorities and work schedules and interests and nap desires and chocolate obsessions and first date tolerance levels and mental health states and Tinder-swiping abilities and overall lives. There are significant, unique differences to take into account when dissecting the concept of a healthy or active or normal sex life. These variations in human sexuality result in there not actually being a fixed healthy/active/normal sex life.
How on earth could a random man-sir-dude in a bar in Toronto determine how often another man-sir-dude in another continent should be getting down and moving it all around? He can’t. He can only determine his own wants and desires and whatever determination he lands on is the correct one for him and him alone. He wants to fuck every night? Wonderful. He wants to only fuck people he has a deep emotional connection with? Sounds lovely! He wants to fuck every other month ˜cause he’s busy at work and too stressed to handle more than that? Great. He wants to fuck only himself? Cool! Himself is the best! He really doesn’t want to fuck at all? Amazing. He fucks on Saturdays? Perfect. He wants to fuck when he’s in the mood to fuck and can’t guarantee when that will be ˜cause it shifts a whole lot? *Nods head in approval*
Society used to shame the people who engaged in sexual activity in bulk. But now, Society has persuaded us into thinking that if you’re not boning non-stop without smoke breaks you’re some kind of prudish, no fun, unappealing, happiness-killing freak. Society wants us to believe that if you and your partner don’t copulate your continual love for each other on a weekly basis you shouldn’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day together. Society is intent on assuring us that the more you orgasm the more worth you have as a human being. This is especially true for women who are told they exist to meet the needs of man-sir-dudes. If you can’t make love frequently as a woman, then you’re not doing it correctly. ˜It’ being breathing is a direct quote from Society. But, Society, as per usual, is 100 per cent wrong. Society is a damn liar and you should never trust it’s judgey, patriarchal, capitalist, white supremacist, classist, ableist eye.
If you want to have sex, then I embolden you to get out there and grab some consensual ass. I know I personally LOVE sex and steadily search for it nowadays. But if you don’t end up locating any consensual ass or you decide against it, there’s nothing abnormal about you. Droughts happen. Not-by-choice and by-choice abstinence are things. Libidos ebb and flow. Schedules change. Stress increases. Naps are tempting. Chocolate is available to buy. Tinder is glitchy. Relationships morph. Priorities reverse. Interests transform. First dates still suck and always will. You simply gotta do what’s good for you and ignore the influence of others. You should never feel like you are being pressured into sex. Don’t obey the rules of any strict, regimented self-help book about healthy/active/normal sex lives no matter how many millions of copies it’s sold. Remember: the person who wrote that book lives on another continent and they have no clue what you need.
