In just one week I will see my enboifriend for the first time in six months. We have assessed the risks of travelling to see each other during a global pandemic and decided that after spending half of our whole relationship apart, we’re going to be together on our anniversary. I’m super excited to see them, but I’m not without some anxiety. Mostly because my depression means that my sex drive is low right now, and I’m worried that they might not love me if I’m not such a horny slut.
Content note for discussion of suicide, depression and mental illness, plus mention of knife play.
I have built a blog, a brand, around being a horny slut. I’m kinky and sex-positive; I write semi-autobiographical filth and share photos of my butt on the internet. I met my enboifriend at a Smut Slam, where I sat on the floor in the front row and gazed up at them while they told a story about the first time they explored knife play with their partner. It was incredibly hot, I was unashamedly turned on, and at the end of the evening I went up to them to ask if they’d be interested in grabbing coffee sometime.
The next day we went on our first date. We also had our first fuck, which proves that one should always carry a dildo and strap-on harness in your handbag.
Sex is important in how we both connect to people, and it’s a significant part of our relationship. We didn’t start off in a relationship – for a short month my enboifriend was “the cute human I’m dating” in polite company and “the cute human I’m dating and fucking” on my blog and on Twitter. I didn’t expect to fall in love with them, but when I did our sex was a big part of that love. Of course it was – I’m a sex blogger who was wearing a Doxy t-shirt on the night we first met.
Except now I don’t want to have sex. In the past few months, I’ve had to ask them if we can stop sexting because I’m crying. In the last few weeks, I’ve had to cancel long distant dates with them so I can call a helpline because I’m suicidal. Throughout lockdown I’ve become more and more cautious about committing to sex. Scheduling sex dates ahead of time makes me feel like I need to be ready to fuck as soon as the call starts. I’m not good at giving myself time to warm up and get into a sexy headspace – for a sex nerd, I am astonishingly bad at understanding my own arousal.
They understand. They don’t take it personally, and they don’t want to pressure me. They tell me to stop apologising when I feel guilty because I don’t want to fuck. It makes sense that my mental illness affects my sex drive. On days when I can’t get out of bed – when I haven’t showered and I feel sweaty and gross and utterly numb – of course I don’t want to have sex. But my depression is a skilled liar, and it can make me feel like I’m letting my enboifriend down if I don’t want to have sex with them. It sneaks into my head and tells me that they fell in love with a horny slut, so why would they love this broken shell of a person?
When I have been needy and asked them this question, they’ve assured me that they do. They’ve explicitly told me that they don’t want to think of sex as something they “get” from me. It’s not something I owe them. Our relationship does not need sex to survive – something we’ve already proved by not having touched each other in six months. I’ve missed them so much, but right now I don’t miss the sex. So now we’re planning to see each other, I have to deal with the fact that our anniversary isn’t going to be a fuck-fest.
For once, I’m not approaching an adventure with them with the aim of cramming in as much sex as possible.
My enboifriend and I have talked about this, of course. We’ve agreed that if we fuck next weekend, then that is a bonus. Our aim is to share space. Our aim is to kiss, to touch, to sit together reading or writing and reconnecting. I’m still nervous though – about the potential awkwardness of seeing someone I know so well after months apart, and about having to tell them no in person. Although they’ve told me that they don’t love me any less because I’m not up for sex, I know I will still feel broken if I’m with them and they want to fuck me but I can’t.
And in exploring all of this, I’ve realised that I’ve been asking the wrong question. I know that they will still love me if I’m not a horny slut, so why do I find it harder to believe that I will? Have I somehow internalised the idea that my self-worth is tied to my desirability and willingness to fuck? Maybe the pressure I put on myself isn’t because I feel broken if I’m not up for sex. Maybe it’s not that I feel less like myself if I’m not in the headspace to wank. Maybe it’s that I’m scared that my value to many of my friends is based on sex.
I am worried that you will cease to care about me if I’m not the slut who is cocky about how well I suck your dick. I am worried that you will be less invested in our friendship if I can’t bring myself to read your erotica. It’s not that I think that my friends keep me around because I’m one of the filthiest people they know. However, I still struggle to see my own value and have apparently been using sex and sluttiness to deal with those anxieties about what I can bring to a relationship.
I know you will still love me if I’m not a horny slut, but somehow I have defined my self-worth by my willing to fuck you. I might need to work on that…
Vulnerability is hard, y’all, and it would mean a lot if you could support my so I can keep blogging about my innermost relationship anxieties. If you liked this post, please consider leaving me a tip so I can keep bringing you my confessions about how I apparently fuck up when it comes to believing that I am worthy of love.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.
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