Tired of Sex

As per the Weezer song, I’m tired of sex. Or at least online dating.

Today marks the one-year anniversary of my first sexual encounter since my series of surgeries! What have I learned during my year of healing and exploration?

I privilege the familiar over the strange. There is something so artificial and contrived about internet dating. The relationships are constructed with intention. You script people into your narrative instead of seeing where they fit.

At first, I was into having strangers touch me. I took pleasure in my physical functionality and the fact that I could pass for normal. It was a humanizing experience, proof that my body worked. At this point, sexy times with strangers have become banal and almost rote. A dearth of spontaneity results from a surplus of expectations. It’s like timing oneself to porn instead of using porn as a jumping off point and allowing your desire to carry you.

Though equally arbitrary in terms of whom you meet when and what they can do for you, relatively anonymous sex is more organic and in-the-moment. Disregarding your pesky mind and its impertinent input, you are free to accept your body as your guide, lord and savior. The most impromptu internet encounter I’ve had this year was my tinder ginger (my first tinder ginger, subject of a future post). We went on one date where we got drunkish together, and the next evening when I was sitting around casually with my hands in my pants it occurred to me, “I don’t have to masturbate; I can prolly get laid.” And I could. I thought he might be vaguely offended that he was being downgraded but I didn’t care because FUCK expectations. Just because you call someone for sex doesn’t mean that’s all you want from him.

My yearly catch: the bodies parts of 12 male humans in my snatch.

The saddest song is that only 8 had sex with me. Not by my design. Which means which I’ve only had 8 fuckings this year. Each man was single-serving only. No wonder I’m bored. The spoils of sex didn’t amount to much. My encounters (interactions?) have been more transactional than acquisitive. I come out even-steven. Seldom feel like I’ve made out like a bandit.

To be fair, two of the twelve were repeats (partners from my past) and two I would have gladly banged again if they didn’t live thousands of miles away (one moved cross-country after our hello-goodbye fuck and the other I met on an airplane). The best sex was with the two I met in the real world (as opposed to the world wide web), even though in both cases I knew in advance we would soon grow geographically distant. The most affirming sex was with the two who got to see the ‘before’ and ‘after,’ and didn’t act as if I were broken. There was no walking on eggshells. No acknowledgement of my condition, except to say, “I’m sorry what you’ve been through.” With no implication of, “I’m sorry what you are now.” It’s nice to have a witness to your transformations or basic trajectory. With the whole random sex thing so much narrative gets lost and it’s just hopping from lily pad to lily pad.

It’s amazing how quickly I go through guys. Even when slightly handicapped! Probably my least attractive quality. But hey, I’m “selective.”

Ahhh, the power of euphemisms.

One year gone. Twelve men down.

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