Usually, our post-sex silence is almost as intoxicating as the sex. Our bodies remain blurred together and magnetized by some type of cosmic energy that floods my spirit with warm sensations of "yes". That type of hushed connection feels absolutely delicious and completely non-threatening... for awhile.
My heart feels all warm and gooey right now. Last time I felt this way was circa 2000. But my body remembers vividly this deliciously tortuous feeling when hours of productivity are squandered away daydreaming, dissecting the meaning of each moment spent together and living in anticipation of the next time. I’m such a girl.
After minimal hours of sleep and a strong cup of coffee by my side, I clocked in at my new full-time job: cultivating a love connection on OkCupid. It required the labor intensive tasks of sorting though and scrutinizing profiles and quiver connections to see if anyone peaked my interest or titillated my ego.
At this point, I didn’t care if I’d be meeting him for the first time dressed in some matchy-matchy Lululemon get-up, with my hair in a ponytail and still sweating from my Redcord class. Oh, I’d be sure to look “effortlessly cute”, mind you, but I wasn’t gonna invest any real time and energy in trying to impress my “imaginary boyfriend” with a fab outfit and a cute hairdo. Nope, I planned on being just cute enough to make him curious...
I think I'm having a mid-life SEX crisis! I'm forty-two years old, divorced and haven't had anything other than a self-induced orgasm in four years. I can't believe it myself! Never in a million, gazillion years would I have predicted this! How is this my life? Granted, Post Marital Stress Disorder (PMSD) is partially to blame.
As if my single and celibate self wasn't already consumed with enough thoughts of sex. But since availing myself to the world of dating, copulation feels imminent and fantasy has begun disrupting my general productivity. So has a discreet little vibrating toy I picked up at Babeland.
And that's the dude I turned The Rock down for. But rather than wallowing in misery and regret, I became a slut. Not a slut in the numerical sense, though. Let's just say, I lost any sort of cautionary discretion when it came to sleeping with someone before really getting to know them. Yes, even less discretion than cohabiting with someone within weeks of meeting. Put it this way: if I knew your name and you made me "tingle"... I was down.
What a sobering thought to realize I might not have been the catch I thought I was. Especially since, by the time I met my husband, I was thirty years old and felt damn good about the person I had become. It was just seven years earlier I dared exercise my independence and free-will by mustering up the courage to move to NYC.
Evidently, the number one cause for divorce is financial stress. Not infidelity. Go figure. And, yeah, I eventually found out that my EX had cheated on me; but I bet that never woud've happened had financial stress not already done a number on our relationship. Well, maybe. This is what I think really happened; my version.
SEX! I think I left my vagina in Los Angeles. At the very least, my “horny hormones” stopped functioning the instant I found out my EX had cheated on me and decided to keep it his little secret until my BFF caught wind of his dalliances and spilled the beans. I guess I could’ve chosen the slut route; somehow convincing myself that one-night stands and meaningless sex would feel empowering and that emotional connection and intimacy weren’t pre-requisites for getting off or feeling fulfilled.
