What if I never have sex again?

Image by the incredibly talented Stuart F Taylor

I haven’t had sex for over three weeks. I can’t remember the last time I did, either. Not the position or the length or the time of day, or even whether I came. Maybe we started with a soft blow job. Perhaps it began with his hands down my knickers or me begging him to watch porn and touch himself for me. I can’t remember when I last had sex, or how. And now I’m wondering: what if I never had sex again?

I don’t mean it in a self-pitying way. You don’t need to pat me on the shoulder and say ‘there there’ or give me sympathy. I’m just curious: what might my life look like if I never have sex again?

Firstly, I probably couldn’t complain about it: if someone announced that sex was finite, like helium, and needed to be rationed, I’d probably volunteer to be one of the ones who did without it. I love sex, and it would break my heart to abandon it forever, but I’ve had plenty of excellent shags over the last thirty four years, so it’s only fair to let other people have a go.

Secondly, I think my sex drive would probably just start to erode. My lust is pretty self-sustaining, in that the more recently I have had sex, the more likely I am to want more sex. As the time passes between shags, whichever part of my brain (or my cunt) is responsible for telling me I’m horny fades into the background. Like a neglected dog, it soon stops barking for my attention when it realises it isn’t going to get it.

Third, there’s the issue of my job. I’m not entirely sure how I’d go about writing a sex blog if I was neither fucking anyone nor interested in fucking at all. I could pivot, I guess, and do more sex toy content, but there are only so many ways I can write ‘had a lovely wank’ and still make it interesting. I’m not snarky enough to do the funny reviews, and I’m not knowledgeable enough to do genuine comparisons. I’d have to stick to writing either ranty posts about sexual politics, or focus on audio porn and other projects which don’t require me to come up with new stories.

I’d have to get a new job. Maybe making kinky furniture for people who were having more sex than I was, or editing sex stories written by those with more inspiration. Maybe I’d go back to the life I had before I was GOTN, and go sit at a desk in someone else’s office, making intelligent-sounding noises in meetings while desperately hoping no one will give me any more work.

What if I just don’t have sex ever again? When I first wrote that question down it sounded terrifying – my initial response would be ‘I’m a sex blogger! I’d lose my job and my boyfriend and my hobby and all I love!’ As if sex is the star around which the rest of my life orbits. Like if I stopped fucking my vagina would shrivel and die from underuse and I would crumble into a ball of frustrated, unemployed horn.

I wouldn’t though: I’d be fine.

But that doesn’t mean I actually want to never have sex again. I still love sex. And even though right now neither my body nor my mind really want it instinctively, the rational part of my brain knows that I will definitely want to fuck soon. Even if only in an intellectual way: as an exercise I force myself to do, to remind me why I loved it in the past.

Much as I sometimes write blog posts – like this one – which have no rhyme or reason other than to take words from my head and get them onto the page. Because I haven’t written anything since the morning of Christmas Eve, and right now the ‘publish’ button scares me. It’s been too long since I touched it, I’ve forgotten how it feels. And although I know that it’s basically fine – I write some good stuff, some bad stuff, and a hell of a lot of in-between stuff – right now writing anything seems so absurdly frightening.

Sometimes we fuck because we’re horny. Sometimes we fuck because we’re tired. Sometimes we fuck because we want to try out a new sex toy, or connect with someone, or distract ourselves from the troubles of the day.

And sometimes we fuck because it’s been three weeks, and the memory of why we liked it is fading. And although we have good fucks and bad fucks and a hell of a lot of in-between fucks, right now having any fuck seems so absurdly frightening.

17 Comments

  • Lisa says:

    I haven’t had any kind of “real” sex for over 2 years…. My partner/now “friend” is a recovering (3 years sober) alcoholic who decided last year that he shouldn’t be in a relationship after 7 years. I valled him out and now we are “best friends”… I’ve loved him since I was 16, with children/relationships since then. With him – best sex ever…until 2 years ago! My only “companion” now is my Doxy…and my memories!

    • Girl on the net says:

      Well, as far as companions go, Doxy isn’t bad at all! But I’m sorry that you’ve you’ve been through what sounds like a really tough period. Hope that you get what you need <3

  • Karine says:

    I like your text and it resonates with me. Between my previous partner and my current one, 5 years passed without sex.
    There were moments when I missed it (and when my new boyfriend and I started having sex together, I realized I had missed it more than I thought), but 99% of time, I was fine. In my case, it made me realize that the message I was getting from the media and the people around me was wrong (in short: spending years without having sex means you have a problem).
    Thanks!

    • Girl on the net says:

      Thanks Karine, and very good point – the messages we’re given about sex is that there’s something wrong with us if we aren’t having it (or – God forbid – don’t want it) but it’s perfectly natural to go through phases of higher/lower libido as well as to have breaks altogether whether through circumstance, mood or whatever!

  • Phillip says:

    Someone will doubtlessly tell you to get a hobbie. That is what I have. It is a really consuming discipline and I am very good at it. I do it without acknowledgment. However, it doesn’t replace sex and I suspect nothing really can. I think it is best to not measure oneself against others. I feel a bit ridiculous writing about something of which I have very limited knowledge. I guess that I should say what I know that seems to be true. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. If things don’t pick up don’t let it become you. Make it happen. I have a feeling that you know how to do that! Bodies in motion tend to stay is motion. The brain will come along for the ride and the drought will end. They always do.

  • Fuzzy says:

    I’m 58 and I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I haven’t had sex for as much 3 weeks since … ok 40 years, so since 1978. Clearly you are one of those people as well.

    I’m sure 3 weeks doesn’t sound like much to a lot of people (no, a LOT of people), but for me it can be an eternity. I was once celibate for a whole 6 months; it was a very strange time. But even with the 6 month span of time, mostly it felt like I was refilling my reservoir, stocking up for the coming deluge. It was meditation without goals until I was simply ready again and when I did it was refreshing and shiny and new.

    So hooray for you, enjoy it while it’s happening! I believe it was Oscar Wilde who mentioned that “Celibacy is the most unusual of all the perversions.” So save it up until you really really are super craving it and are going to just masturbate compulsively all day unless you get what you want. Until such time, all time be time.

    • Girl on the net says:

      This is beautifully sanguine and philosophical – I just wanted to say thanks because it was a joy reading it and that’s very nice advice!

  • Jul says:

    You are a shining star. Thank you for sharing these intensely private thoughts with us. This kind of bravery is a reminder for me to share my deepest anxieties with people I trust, because once I vomit them up I inevitably feel better. I’m not sure I could ever do it for the general public, though; my shame is just too acute.

    If you give up on writing about sex, how about teaching us philosophy? Everything I know about it I learned from The Good Place, and it made me want to know more. Just a thought.

    • Hazelthecrow says:

      I 100% endorse this suggestion. GOTN you are an excellent writer; im pretty sure you could write about anything and I’d want to read it. Philosophy or politics would be spectacular though, as your ranty ones and the ones where you’re working out how to feel about something are some of the best.

      • Girl on the net says:

        Thanks both so much! I’ll have a go at doing a bit more philosophy – trying to think of any philosophy stuff I can cram in like Plato’s Blow Job =) https://www.girlonthenet.com/2016/04/27/best-blow-job-ever-will-haunt-forever/

        You’re really kind, and I’m massively grateful to you for saying nice things and giving me encouragement – it means a lot <3

        • fuzzy says:

          If you haven’t read Octavia Butler, I strongly recommend her; imho she is one of the top 5 writers in any genre in the second half of the 20th century. I say this because I believe you could write novels with similar impact if you ever decided to primarily focus on writing novels. If you’re interested, I can recommend a few. And of course there are other writers, but i just get this feeling. Oh and *relatively* speaking you don’t live very far from Diane Duane, who is one of the best fantasy novelists ever. So no, I don’t think they are being “kind”, i think they are properly giving credit where due.

          • Girl on the net says:

            Ooh thank you for the recommendation – I will check both of them out! I would LOVE to be able to write a novel, but I’m not 100% sure I’d be any good at it. I have an idea I’ve been playing with for a while now (like basically everyone who ever sat with a MacBook in a Starbucks) but I really struggle with plotting when it’s fiction – real life stuff is so much easier because you just have to decide how to tell a story that’s already happened. Maybe one day though – thank you for the encouragement and the tips!

  • I’ve had very little sex in the past two years for reasons known, and it’s as if my body is ‘adjusting’ to that. I might have to write something about that too. Very interesting thoughts in your post that sparked thoughts in mine ;)

    Rebel xox

  • Phillip says:

    There is a common thread in that everyone likes you and is empathetic and has concern for you. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone get negative on any of your posts. This is a really big accomplishment and something to feel good about. I am sure that your ‘problem’ will resolve itself.

    • Girl on the net says:

      Thanks, it has resolved itself now! I might write about how/why later if I’m up to it. I feel compelled to point out, for clarity, that while the vast majority of people here *are* very lovely and supportive, a lot of the negative stuff just gets deleted. I’m up for constructive criticism and dialogue, but I do remove comments that are just nasty and have nothing to add – https://www.girlonthenet.com/2017/11/22/comment-policy-im-a-dictator/ You can see them on any of the older ‘ranty’ (i.e. feminist) posts from early in my blogging career though!

  • Geoff says:

    As someone who was put in a position to make this actual decision, I agree that “terrified” is an apt word for it. I had the same sense you have here that in the end, one way or the other, it would be fine. But when I had to really face it and ask myself whether I *knew* it would be fine, I couldn’t. All these years later I can’t even say with any certainty that things have been fine with the choice I made. Of course I can’t say how things would have turned out the other way either. There are some decisions made in life that are so consequential and so uncertain that the initial feeling of terror never fully leaves.

    It’s natural to seek support or confirmation in these circumstances, so your second paragraph is also strikingly on-the-nose. Obviously such a story is quite personal, and revealing that my wife is asexual is often out of line in company that knows her. But the other aspect that discourages me from discussing it much is that an ulterior motive is usually assumed. As you mention, somebody hearing the story may feel that I’m looking for pity. Others feel that I’m trying to present some kind of moral superiority, that I secretly have no trouble with it and am looking for false praise, or even that I get off on self-sacrifice and present a dishonest front. All of these disavow my hardship and make it hurt more deeply. What’s ironically more uncomfortable is the rare person who saints me for being able to give up such a thing in the name of love. I can’t abide the dignity of having made a conscious decision reduced to something as facile as virtue, so even those who may initially think well of me feel slighted when I demur.

    And here I’ve spilled hundreds of words without even touching upon the thousands I could spend on the actual substance of the decision and consequences. You’re right that in the end life goes on, and you’re also right that it never really comes down to a certain answer either.

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