A suggestive glance used to send shivers down my spine. Eventually, a different sort of look (think eyes squished shut, mouth gaping open, barely audible curses slipping out1) would creep into my subconscious and create a different sort of ripple. Was that disgust?
Rawness gets me off, but bones destroy the comfort in cuddles. When he told me my beauty wouldn’t last forever, I was angered. Not by his words or the truth behind them, but by the value I unwittingly placed on aesthetic features.
He apparently wasn’t perturbed by my ephemeral attractiveness, still lingering around too long after long nights with close friends, but for me those sort of sleepless nights were over. When did bottles of wine become synonymous with expectations of sex?
Being entered lost its appeal. Primitive urges fizzled with nonchalant comments. Having sex went from casual to complicated, and like that, I was done. Mental mastication2 became my anti-masturbation. I was over-penetrated, and over penetration.
This wasn’t my first case of penal regret.
Flashback: a getaway romance in the tropical sunshine. Drunken, sweaty sex consumed the nights. But just as quickly as I dove in, I was at a loss for air. I needed to get out. As he leaned drunkenly in my door assuming entrance to my bed, intrigue turned to annoyance. The pursuit grabbed me and pulled me in. But desire quickly faded from intoxicating to sickening. Was sex worth those repetitive 2 a.m. drunk chats or having to share a single bed?
Another instance: a ‘significant other.’ At our best, we had sex six times a day. At our worst, we went weeks without it. By the end, I didn’t need to have sex to know what it would be like; I was already bored. Sure I could seem enthralled (there’s no denying certain degrees of physical stimulation), but I couldn’t get lost in the act. I didn’t want to go deep in him and I didn’t want him deep in me.
Sexual appetite got caught in the crossfire of my own moral dilemma. What worth did I bring to myself with a new sexual experience? Would I feel sexier tomorrow knowing someone creamed on my back tonight? Being flipped on my back used to feel playful, now I just felt like a pancake.
When physical touch brings you nausea and a sexual glance shame, what does this mean?
The brain screams more loudly than the body.
The act that was so natural becomes foreign, repulsive. Rejection becomes the dominant reaction when physical interaction is muddled by a deafening mind.
1 Some might call this an “O face”
2 Read: over-thinking
