Unfuckable

You know when you’ve been in a relationship for a while and you don’t spend every waking minute wanting to jump your partner anymore?

I don’t.

Okay, I guess I do a little bit. But it’s not that I want it less, it’s just that I fall into regular-life habits with my partner, and there just isn’t as much time. And right now, of course, there’s lots of stress.

(Stress that could be alleviated by a quick fuck, imho. But I digress.)

What happens to me, instead, is that I get caught in a whirlpool (cesspool?) of self-doubt.

Let me take you on a little retrospective tour of my love life:

College boyfriend, ages 19-22. We both enjoyed our sex life, but there were times… when he was stressed, or tired, or who-knows-what… when he didn’t want sex. This, to twentyish me, was inconceivable. I don’t remember how I reacted, but possibly with a combination of semi-playful whining and nagging. (Yeah, I don’t know why people who knew me at 19 still speak to me.) College boyfriend was non-confrontational, and one time I discovered that he had lied about not having condoms so he wouldn’t have to fuck me.

He lied so he wouldn’t have to fuck me. Me! Sexy horny 20-year-old me!

Surely, I thought, my best friend from high school, who’d always had a crush on me, would never let me down sexually. So the summer after I broke up with college boyfriend, I started fucking him, and we had constant passionate, athletic sex until… he said he thought he might be gay. (He wasn’t. But still.)

Then I lived with a guy who never had a hard-on with me. I hope it was just me, for his sake. At the time, I was sure it was me. He was an asshole, so we never even tried to figure it out before I moved on…

…to Middle Eastern boyfriend, who was nine years older than me (so, like, all of 32) and who figured a blow job once a week took care of our sexual needs.

I thought it couldn’t get any worse when I married a man who had very little sexual desire for me (after the wedding), who wouldn’t fuck me when I was pregnant, and with whom I once went a year without sex. Not just PIV intercourse. Sex.

But you know what was worse? The way these my partner doesn’t want sex with me so I must be undesirable experiences fucked with my head.

Swinging was reassuring. If a guy couldn’t get hard, there were many other factors to blame—alcohol, performance anxiety, the fact that we were in a doctor’s-office-themed room—and I could literally step into the next room if I wanted to find someone ready and able to fuck me. (Not that I did. But it was pleasant to know that I could.)

But real relationships? With real people? Even people who are really, really into each other? They go through ups and downs. And it is hard as hell for me to remember that.

I still haven’t dated anyone with a sex drive as strong as mine. I don’t turn down sex, but I get turned down. And that sucks.

This problem is compounded by the fact that I now find it incredibly difficult to make the first move. I had to make the first move for 24 years. I need to be pursued, seduced, restrained, taken.

That shit requires a lot of energy from my partner.

I mean, I would initiate. I would do all the work. I don’t mind, truly. It’s just that I get to a point where, if sex isn’t happening, and I dare to think, “Hmm… well, Veronica, he hasn’t tried to fuck you in a week, true, but there’s no law against letting your fingers brush against his balls the next time you massage his legs…”

Then the part of me that’s been tallying up those rejections starts in.

“For god’s sake, don’t do that now! If he wanted you, he’d be fucking you. He’ll reject you, then you’ll get upset, and the next time he makes a move, you’ll think he’s just trying to make you happy even though he still doesn’t want you, and and and… you will have to break up with him and retire from sex forever, because if someone who seemed to be as into you as he was, back in the beginning, loses interest in you this fast… well, Veronica, after 34 years of trying to get people to fuck you, you’ve got to admit that you’re simply unfuckable.”

Deep breath.

I’m exhausted.

I’m sexy, I’m GGG, I’m resilient. I’ll figure it out. Or else start writing exclusively about masturbation. That could work too.

PS: Writing this post reminded me of Amy Schumer’s skit about an actress’s last fuckable day. If you haven’t seen it, you must.