It’s been a quiet month here at EROcentric. My review schedule remains outdated & untouched and I haven’t had the motivation or the emotional fortitude to admit what’s been going on with my sex life — to myself, my partner, or to my readers. But the more I tried to push down my emotions, the more they needed to find validation within actual words.
The truth is… My partner and I have had sex exactly once in the last month and my number of masturbation sessions is not much higher.It started as my last menstrual cycle came to an end. I could feel that something wasn’t quite right with my body, and before long I noticed the telltale signs of a yeast infection. I purchased the dreaded Monistat (I’m never quite sure what feels more uncomfortable: a yeast infection or the treatment for one), stocked the fridge with yogurt, and started drinking enough water to have me running to the restroom every hour. Compared to yeast infections of my past, this one actually surrendered without much of a fight.
When I finally allowed myself to masturbate again, the results were lackluster at best & mildly uncomfortable at worst. The lubricant stung, thrusting felt abrasive, and arousal was nonexistent. At this point, I hadn’t had sex for about 2 weeks — and it suddenly went from something that I was longing for to something that I needed to simply push out of my mind.
I should point out that two weeks without sex has not been exceptionally rare for me over the last few years. I’ve been fairly open about my struggle with low libido & my efforts to determine what it means for my own sexuality while also forming a plan of action with my “high libido” partner. It’s been the topic of many tearful conversations, but we’ve finally been seeing some real progress… until this particular set back.
I could tell that the lack of physical intimacy was beginning to wear on my partner, even though our emotional intimacy was still high. I just couldn’t find the words to talk with him about this. All I knew was that my body wasn’t cooperating and my mind had shut itself off from any sexual thoughts. Anything more than cuddles felt like a request that I simply couldn’t handle, and the guilt & shame was too overwhelming to let him in. All he knew was that I had stopped expressing love in a way that is very meaningful to him.Finally, after 3 weeks of no sex and a growing distance between the two of us, I was desperate. Desperate for a connection. Desperate to feel normal again. I tried to initiate foreplay and get into the mood, but I felt detached from my body…and as intercourse followed, the pain set in.
As someone who advocates for sex positivity, consent education, and open sexual communication, you’d think that I would have spoken up — but I didn’t. I hid my pain in the darkness, clenched my fists, and waited it out. And once it was over, I cried.
Yes, I cried because the burning pain of a thousand suns was trapped within my vagina. But I also cried because after so long without sex, I felt like I had ruined everything. I cried because I felt guilty that I didn’t communicate, and therefore put my partner in a very awkward situation. I cried because I didn’t know what was wrong with my body or my sex drive. …I cried because my shame suddenly became a river that I was drowning in.This entire situation has made me realize that this isn’t the first time I’ve made the mistake of not speaking up. In fact, it’s something that I now recognize I need to work on.
During one of my first D/s scenes with my current partner, I felt uncomfortable and emotionally shut down instead of using my safeword. I fell asleep feeling bitter & angry that he didn’t read my mind, while he was confused and assumed that he had done something to lose me completely.
I’ll also commonly grit my teeth & bear the last few thrusts of intercourse in the doggy style position, even though my partner is painfully bumping against my cervix. I don’t want to speak up, because I know he’s close and I’d hate to ruin his orgasm. I do this continually, even though I know he’d rather me speak up because he hates the idea of me being in pain.
It’s not “no” that I have trouble with; It’s “stop.” My pride gets in the way. I have an impossibly hard time asking for help or asserting my needs. I want to prove that I can take anything. I don’t want to appear weak. But it causes much more trouble than being honest with myself & my partner.Honestly, I’m nervous to have sex again. I’m afraid of the pain still being present. And even though my partner & I have since discussed what happened in much more detail, I’m still scared that sex will be awkward as a result of my communication failure.
The entire mess is contributing to a lack of libido that is more intensely depressing & debilitating than any dry spell I’ve ever experienced before. Although I have ideas on how to move forward, I don’t feel confidant that I’m actually moving in the right direction. I find myself fearing that not only has my libido dropped, but my arousal & enjoyment of sex has as well.
I have to keep reminding myself of the good in this situation: that the crying actually forced me to open up again & it cleared the air between us in the bedroom. That I have recognized an area where I need to focus energy & we’re now facing this problem as a team instead of separate & alone. I also have to remember that being “sex positive” isn’t about having great sex — and it doesn’t mean that I’ll never make mistakes. Sometimes sex is bad, but that doesn’t mean that it always will be. And it doesn’t have to mean that I’ve done irreparable harm to my relationship either.
So, what can you expect from EROcentric in the coming weeks? Unfortunately, I’m not sure. Will my body start cooperating, allowing me to finish reviewing the wonderful products that have so far gone untouched? Will this hiccup in my sexuality allow me to write a couple of non-review articles that I’ve been excited about but haven’t found time for?
At this point, all I can promise is that I am still here & I’m not giving up on this journey.