Apparently, men think about sex every seven seconds.
Personally, I think this is because women think twice as fast as men. But I may be wrong.
Regardless of how often we think about it, I haven’t had sex in four weeks and two days. I could give the hours but that would be a bit…pedantic.
This is not through lack of trying. I’ve got this gorgeously sexy, ex-gymnast Russian girlfriend with looks to cause a Trojan war.
I’m adequately interested.
The issue? Simple really.
(I’m not blaming, I’m not demanding, I’m not feeling entitled. I’m simply stating, because if I can’t state the facts, it’s impossible for me to deal with the repercussions.)
Given the amount of fucked-up-ness in Her head (No, she doesn’t get any sympathy. Just support and love for every part of her) I accept entirely where she’s coming from. And I’ll help her work through it. But it has no impact on what I’m feeling.
There’s a belief that sex is dirty. It permeates everywhere. It’s cheapened by advertisement and used as an insult. It’s used as a distraction – I’m bored, therefore I watch porn. Visiting a strip club is considered exotic; being a stripper is considered low-level. We say “sex sells” but what we mean is “men buy from women”. Desirability is equated to sex to the point that a lesbian admiring a well-proportioned woman is considered acceptable. A straight guy doing the same is considered “pervy”.
Women are considered “odd” if they’re sexual; men, “dirty old men”. Neither are “partner potential”. It’s like it’s wrong to enjoy – or, god forbid, desire – sex.
It becomes taboo. To the point we can’t talk about it. To the point that “gay” is an insult. To the point that “being gay” is only acceptable if it’s loud and brash and in your face. Where every movie and tv series has to show a gay couple to “keep with the times”. Yes it’s real. And yes I really do like it. But I wish it wasn’t so noticeable. I wish it was the norm instead of the new.
We have this innate desire to be desired. Not the object of an orgasm; to have someone be so comfortable with you they touch you and say “wow, your skin is so soft!” because every other sentence in their heads is “wow, they’re so…wow”.
Sex isn’t about orgasms. It’s about boobs and tummies and legs and thighs and cocks and pussies and bums and mouths and noses and fingers and feet and toes and arms and backs being completely irrelevant to the simple act of loving and being.
Cause there is so much more than just the physical. We define ourselves through our clothes and when they’re gone we’re just lumpy sacks of feeling. We’re so vulnerable. We’re trusting someone to let us in. We’re trusting to someone to come in. It takes a different sort of bravery to say “this is all I am, love me.”
People do treat sex as a conquest – though I think the conquest belongs to whom lets in, not who takes – and they treat it as a badge of honour. They can also buy it.
And then sex seems meaningless.
But it’s not. Because they’re not on about sex: they’re on about orgasms. The difference they’re missing? The emotion.
And that’s why I don’t blame Someone for the situation we’re in. It’s been 4 weeks and 2 days and it’s been hard because all I want in all the world is Her. But I want Her to want me to. Because I’m not after an orgasm. I’m after that deeper, better, fuller emotion, that little four letter word that leaves me breathless as I smile and say those three little words:
“Did you cum?”
Because the answer doesn’t matter. Because I know the stresses that enter Her life and I know the troubles that I face. I know what stress can do to you. I don’t ask for the answer. I ask so that we can talk. I ask because the barriers are down. I ask because those stress and troubles are too big to be faced alone.