So, sex. (We’re getting into it. Don’t read forward if you don’t wanna read about sex.)
Sex used to be one of my favorite things in the universe.
I loved it so much. I’m smiling literally in this moment writing this post, feeling wrapped in warmth and safety and happiness – as those are my thoughts about sex from 2015 and before – just comforting, happy, all that.
But I don’t get to fully love it anymore.
Even when I am going off to have sex with someone I reeeeeeeeeeeally like – and someone who I know is gonna keep me safe… Even then. Even when I am so 100,000% on board… There’s a liiiiiiiittle part of me that dreads it.
“This is gonna be a struggle. What happens if I cry? What if I’m not sexy enough after being assaulted (that’s the post I’m writing tonight, so I’ll link to that later to explain what that means).”
It’s just – I have a very hard time feeling 100% present and happy – and 100% excited.
I can feel all the way up to 99% excited (and 99% is pretty darn good, I gotta say!)
But now, there’s always like 1% dread.
And I hate that.
And the thing I hate the most – the most – is the fact that I remember going over to sexual assault dude’s apartment for the first time… 4 days before I was assaulted by him for the first time.
But that first time we slept together?
We were both so excited. The flirting was happening oh so hard. The anticipation was palpable. It was 100% exciting. (I mean, I guess *technically* there was some nervousness – but the good kind. The exciting kind. Not the “oh my gosh, am I gonna freak out tonight” kind…
We texted (and even had little phone calls) aaaaaaall day leading up to it, anytime we had a spare moment at work. He actually worked from home that day, so he could clean his whole apartment and prepare dinner and all of that.
100% excitement. No dread. Just stoked.
And so one of my biggest fears is that the last time that I felt 100% comfortable with a man – 100% excited about a new escapade – when I wasn’t in my head at all, or worried, afraid, or even a little bit dreading it… What if the last time I ever feel that in my life is with that man?
What if? It’s a terrifying thought (to me).
I was listening to a comedy podcast. And this woman happened to tell this little side story. (They were laughing. It didn’t seem upsetting to her… But anyway.) She was telling this story about how she cannot drink tequila anymore, because one time she got so sick in college – so, so very sick, that now, even the thought of tequila makes her want to vomit. So she’s like, “I just don’t drink it anymore.”
And sex makes me feel sick and queasy sometimes and nauseous sometimes…
The way I dealt with the time I was assaulted in college is that just no one can call me “baby” during sex. And as long as I’m not called baby, I’m a million percent fine.
But with this time, it was so much more intense than that. This encompasses everything. Like, what? No one can ever be on top, or look me in the eyes? Or have sex with me in my bed (once I’m good and well ready)? Or try to be intimate with me outside of sex? Or take a shower with me? (And on and on and on.) My god.
And I am pushing forward like, what(?)!
I am trying my darndest to just keep having sex. (That’s a post for itself probably.)
But I don’t want to avoid it.
The woman’s story on the podcast was basically like, “Tequila made me sick. I have a terribly memory with it. So now I just avoid it.”
And I sobbed (at a story told in a very lighthearted/funny/silly way). Because I just do not want sex to be my tequila.