I thought I was going to have sex on Wednesday evening. I thought I was going to have sex right up until 7pm, when I realised that he wasn’t going to text me back and I’d wasted a whole day not making plans because I wanted to make plans with him. I’d been eager to suck his dick, and he didn’t respect my time enough to text me to tell me he wasn’t up for a fuck. It was’t until then that I understood that I’d let myself be vulnerable. And when I realised that, I broke down.
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Am I a bad person if I feel ok after a break up? I asked myself that question again and again after I broke up with my enboifriend, not realising that actually I wasn’t ok at all. I’d been expecting to fall apart, to physically ache with the pain of missing them. I wasn’t expecting to feel numb, to feel nothing. I wasn’t expecting to feel relief.
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I had another post planned for today. It was Vaginismus Awareness Day yesterday, and season three of Netflix’s Sex Education comes out tomorrow, so I was going to write about how the show’s vaginismus plot-line has made so many people with vaginismus feel seen, but made me feel more broken. It would have been clever and timely and good. Instead I fell apart in public and cried while clutching my laptop to my chest. Instead I wrote this.
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When they go low, we monetise our pain. I said it a friend back in November: when they go low, we invest in ourselves and get paid to write about the things they hate about us. I meant it as a joke, but for all else 2020 has been it’s been the year when I stepped into my trans identity and I’m really fucking proud of that.
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This is the question I kept asking myself. I miss my sex drive. In the past I’ve been told by friends that I have one of the highest sex drives of the people they know. I don’t recognised myself in that description anymore, and I wish I did. I want my sex drive back, but I’m not going to do something stupid to force it to kick back in. Something stupid like having casual sex to fuck my sex drive back to life.