The last couple of times I had sex, I cried afterwards. I know, this blog post sounds like it’s going to be a little bit horrible: it is. Sorry about that. Sometimes life is full of hot fucking and joyful blow jobs, and sometimes… well, sometimes it is stress and panic and crying after sex.
The first time I cried after sex, it was because I was sad. There isn’t really any sugar-coating here: I was sad. I was sad for a whole bunch of reasons. My body didn’t work, that’s the main one. I’ve had a few really anxious weeks, and although sometimes I can fuck my anxiety away, more frequently it sits in between me and my partner like this huge, cold barrier. It kills my libido, and makes me forget what I enjoy about sex. It makes me feel like every second I spend on joyful things is a second I could be using for something more useful.
It tells me that fucking isn’t useful, and so I shouldn’t do it.
So that’s the main thing. My body didn’t work.
But more than that: my body had not worked for what felt like a long time. A week can seem like a year when you’ve spent so much of it navel-gazing about how useless you are, and how weak, and how incapable. When you bully yourself into wanking because you’re a fucking SEX BLOGGER. So you have to do this, come on why can’t you do this, what exactly is wrong with you?
If there’s one thing more difficult than having sex when you don’t feel like it, it’s writing on a sex blog about how you didn’t feel like having sex. Again: navel-gazing in the extreme, and probably boring for you lot, who’d rather read something a little hotter. Rest assured, if you read to the end, I’ll give you something less depressing – I promise. But add that to the anxiety bank too: writing is my job, and just as important in my life as sex is. So when you get to the point when you can neither write nor fuck, what is there left to do but cry?
These aren’t the main reasons I cried, though. The main reason I cried, that first time, is because I’d built myself up for something that didn’t happen. He’d sent me a filthy text earlier in the day, and I’d rushed home from the pub to come and find him – delighted that the spark which I thought I’d lost was suddenly firing again. On the tube on the way home I held the image in my mind of him touching himself – trying to make sure I didn’t lose the mood before the train arrived at my stop. And I kept it – just. I ran into the house, breathless, and burst in to where he was sitting with his erection in hand and a huge grin on his face. I spat on my hand, lubed up his dick, and sat down on it slowly while he groaned with relief.
Then we fucked.
And then I cried.
I know now why I cried: not because I didn’t come (although I didn’t) or even because I didn’t enjoy it (though I didn’t). I cried because as I squeezed my cunt tight to better feel him come inside me, I realised I’d given up trying. Given up caring about whether I came, given up really trying to enjoy it. I’d held that promise of a fuck for the whole journey home, yet as soon as I actually started doing it all I could think about was getting it over and done with.
Why? I don’t know. I don’t know what is more important to me than being physically close with the person I love the most in the whole world. Using his body for pleasure, and revelling in the way he uses mine. Feeling his warm hands on my skin, and his lips around my nipples and his thick cock stretching out my eager cunt… what exactly is more important than this to me? I don’t know. All I knew was that at some point I’d given up on that, and stopped finding joy in it. I just wanted it to be over. I didn’t cry because I hadn’t had fun, I cried because I’d stopped giving a shit about fun altogether. I was so wrapped up in anxiety – terrified of literally everything the world had to throw at me – that there was no room whatsoever for joy.
So I ran out of the room, slammed the kitchen door, put the dinner on and then cried. And cried. And cried.
Crying after sex: take two
A week or so later, after a long bath and an even longer session of crying into a towel, he came to lie on the bed beside me. It’s one of my favourite things, this: lying on the soft blanket on our bed, warm and naked and soft after a bath, just feeling the sensations of softness on my skin and pushing out everything else that’s going on.
He came to lie beside me, and he kissed me.
I don’t know how long: hours? Minutes? It was long enough that every fibre of my anxious being wanted to run away. It felt nice, and that niceness felt unfair. Niceness made me guilty, because it was not something I deserved.
But he did it anyway.
He kissed me really gently – not in the way that I like, in the way that he likes. He did the things that he’d been itching to do for a week, but which my anxiety was keeping him away from. He gave me soft kisses and he touched me gently, and occasionally he pulled away, looked me in the eye and said ‘is this OK?’
He kissed me again, started touching me all over, took breaks every now and then to ask:
‘Is this OK?’
And it wouldn’t have been, but for him asking. Those gentle, calm questions made me feel like it was OK. He wasn’t trying to make me feel joy, or cajole me into being my same old self: he just wanted to do things and wanted those things to be OK. Not groundbreaking, or world-changing, or inducing the greatest orgasms I’d ever known… he just wanted me to be OK.
So I was.
He flipped me over and ran his hands down my back towards my bum.
‘Is this OK?’
Then he spread my legs and used spit-lubed fingers to gently rub my clit.
‘Is this OK?’
Then he rested the tip of his dick against the entrance to my cunt, again:
He fucked me slowly at first – long, firm strokes that built to a pause as he rested with his cock deeply inside me, holding back to stop himself from coming. He sighed with satisfaction, then took the Doxy out of my bedside drawer, turned it on and placed it beneath me (‘Is this OK?’ ‘Yes’) before he started fucking me again. Each stroke pushed me down onto the bed, grinding my clit against the rumbling vibrations.
Dragging pleasure out of me even though I thought my tank was empty.
He put both hands on my shoulders to push me more firmly into the bed, and I moaned.
‘Is this OK?’
And it was OK. Though saying it like that sounds like too small a thing for what it was. When you’re used to ‘awful’ and ‘terrifying’, ‘OK’ and ‘fine’ are like gold. I was fine – happy, even. Because he was still there, enjoying me, and wanting me to enjoy him.
He had the patience to try even when I didn’t.
When I came, I shuddered all over, like I was shaking off the sadness of the past few weeks. And once he’d come, I let myself cry. Not out of sadness and self-pity this time, but happiness.
The sheer relief of knowing that even when I give up on me, he won’t.