Celibacy doesn’t agree with me. It’s not like we’re old friends. More passing acquaintances really. Those acquaintances that see each other in a coffee shop and nod hello, exchange polite small talk, and then go away. Both absolutely certain in their conviction that they would never live the other’s life because it was simply…wrong.
And now I’ve found myself moved in with her. Not briefly. Not a, “I just need a place to crash for the weekend” kind of stay. This is more of a “my house burned down to the very foundation with all of my things in it and I don’t have a set of decent lingerie to my name” kind of stay. For months. And I’m going slowly mad.
Yes, yes, I know. It’s so easy for a woman to solve. We can get laid any time we want. I’ve heard that from so many damn men at this point it’s beginning to sound like a pervasive earworm following one around Epcot. But I don’t want to get laid. I want to be laid. And therein lies the problem.
Let’s start at the beginning. A long and complex relationship abruptly ended. And suddenly daily sex with multiple orgasms becomes a thing of memory. It’s a massive shock to the system. Even if you lay by the wayside the emotional turmoil and pain of ending a relationship – because there’s certainly plenty written about that – you still have to deal with the myriad of physical changes the abrupt stop will create in a woman’s body. The redefining of pH balance. (Which is a complex mystery unto itself that probably deserves it’s own wiki for its never-ending subtly and madding intricacy. And the sacrificing of a goat. By the light of a full moon. On virgin grass. But I digress…) The sudden lack of endorphins and hormones that became part of your regular mood management. The lack of tactile sensation. It’s a recipe for insanity.
And of course every wanker’s first piece of advice is to simply go get laid. Wanker.
I’m not a casual kind of woman. I adore sex. In so very many ways. But if all I needed was the physical release, then any number of lovely vibrators and a pair of triple A batteries would be all I required to keep a smile permanently plastered to my visage. However, for a growing percentage of the population, as well as myself, sex is more about intimacy than release. Physical. Intellectual. Emotional. And if you’re not connecting deeply on one of those levels, then I submit to you, you’re doing it wrong.
To be laid is vastly different than to get laid. It’s a distinction far too many people don’t comprehend. And while the bible and I have many serious disagreements, the concept of “knowing” someone as an euphemism for sex is dead on. There is a deeply relational aspect to “knowing”. To know how to move. Where to put your hands. How to elicit the gasps. The clarity in their eyes as they stare into yours. The emotions. What to say to make them blush. The connection. To know someone. Fully. That’s sex. The rest is merely shared exercise.
So, FoCo, shall we get to know each other?