Throwing out the heavy stuff: goodbye to sex
I just swallowed my first dose of Zoloft. My mental health concerns are so preeminent now that the risk of losing interest in sex seems irrelevant. I'm 69, single, depressed, and I don't find myself attractive in the least. Giving up sex (a likely side effect of anti-depressants) is the least of my worries.
I'm not concerned about self-harm, btw. This is not a plea for help…though wow would I love some right now. From anyone. Particularly my ex-wife who a wrongly counted on to be with me during the desperate years.
How about 15 minutes? Could you try that, Mina? After all the love I poured into our marriage? 10?
Not happening. I'm on my own.
So, sex is over, at least as long as I need Zoloft. Let's examine that startling fact…startling to me, since I loved and enjoyed and got great pleasure from a rich sex life. I have so much gratitude for every one of my sexual partners, who were adventurous, funny, self-confident, and mutual.
Not my wife. As much as I loved her, I endured 30 years of her look of daily disappointment every single day. I did not know how to solve the puzzle of her needs, and I was not a good enough listener to her weird communication patterns to intuit what I could not logically grasp. So, I would watch the ritual on days we had mediocre sex…happy for an hour, but by the end of the day, the old lines around her eyes would appear. Her whole body language would slump hour by hour.
The next morning we wouldn't have sex…and there would be a fight before 36 hours had passed. She took my slower tempo as evidence that I didn't adore her, which couldn't have been further from the truth. I adored her. But I never met her needs, and was punished accordingly.
She's a lesbian now, I understand. Or something. She must have a sexual identity by now. I had no idea, though she assured me after she left the third time that her sexuality was obvious to everyone on the planet. I never understood what she was saying. My bad I suppose.
I wonder if she ever thought to ask what my sexuality is. (No, the answer is she never asked. She certainly told me what my sexuality was, a lot. Endlessly. I was never part of the discussion, so I just screamed back at her to get her to stop. When it comes to sex, my ex-wife is a true asshole—addicted to power and unable to conceive of a world where sex with men is about pleasure.)
Back to me…Mina's finally sexually satisfied now so we don't have to worry about her.
Let's say I never have sex again. (I'm including masturbation—I view myself as so hideous after my marital breakup that I stopped masturbating years ago. I haven't had sex with another woman for over two years ago, and I had trouble focusing and didn't particularly enjoy it back then.)
Not because my last sexual partners weren't WAY better lovers than my wife was. Thank you. You women know who you are and you're spectacular. I just hated myself as a sexual being so much that I know I disappointed you.
I don't care. I'm just noting the strange fact that someone who loved sex with playful glee is celibate and can say goodbye to the whole thing with barely a backward glance. I defined myself as a sexual being for so long…and had dependable fun good sexual partners until I met Mina. Yes, sex became war once I met her, but I still enjoyed it. (She didn't—she's assured me—and she's certain I failed to screw her correctly.)
Some thoughts on this important personal milestone—End of Sexuality Wednesday, August 7, 2024:
- God, Zoloft better work! To lose sex and still be this depressed…whew…that will be hell.
- I hope I can find ways to feel attractive to myself. Sex hasn't helped for over 20 years, but still, it was one arrow in my quiver. Now I don't even have a bow.
- I have chest pain writing this and I'm crying.
- This week is the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nixon's resignation. Also Philippe Petit's walk between the twin towers. David Foster's sexuality is not a big deal in the context of a very very fucked up human experience. Couples who produce children from their sexual activity are not doing me any favors, and I believe they are not doing the earth any favors. I wish they'd just say "I'm doing this because I need it for my own good." Tell the truth and never never never believe that others "appreciate" your "selfless" contribution to the mess. Even if you wrongly believe it, mom and dad, don't speak it in my presence. I can't get an erection and my partner shit on me for decades. Guess how I feel about the breeding process. (Kelsey—you're an exception…I admire your courage a lot.)
- I feel ugly and undesirable at a level I've never felt. I want to live alone until I'm through this period because if I met a woman I'd know I was a fraud. A eunuch, sort of? Embarrassing and I'm worried my lack of sexual response would insult a woman who deserves to be honored and who deserves all the orgasms she can get. And the love I communicate through sex, of course. No sex equals no love? That's how I feel as I type this.
- Yes, my Ghosting Goddess, I am very very very angry about this situation, and after myself, I blame you the most. You always needed to do exactly what served you best. To me, you self-sabotaged the slightest hope for success, and in reality I can't imagine you happy. Your blog posts are shite, as the Brits say. Turing Test failures. You appear to be repeating the same pattern every day and expecting different results. But YOU DID NOT HAVE TO FUCK ME UP TO GET LAID ELSEWHERE. People end marriages all the time. Our sex was war. You're the one who owes reparations for the damage. I've been paying off mine for 30 years now. I have no sex, and no money, and no mental health left. Today, it becomes your turn to take over. You are already in default, you adorable sex kitten you. You tyrant. You abuser.
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