I’ve been sexually frustrated ever since I can remember. What started as curiosity became abject desperation once I hit puberty: acne prone, brace-faced, and sporting an eye patch thanks to Bell’s Palsy (a disorder that makes half your face freeze up), I was in no position to act on those first unendurable urges. The internet facilitated a couple of awkward first encounters, and for awhile it looked as though I was off to a good start. Then came art (high) school, with a girl to guy ratio of six to one. Virginity remained the monkey on my back for years afterwards, and I learned that masturbation is far from a quick fix: it’s a way of life.
Like a child with no friends, I developed a rich inner sex life, cultivating involved fantasies likely too horrible to realize. As I blossomed into a reasonably attractive young woman, sex became more and more elusive. I had more opportunities, but my inordinate drive was tempered by a neurosis which drove me to get HIV tests every time I got kissed. By the time I lost my virginity, I had dodged more than a few imaginary bullets. From then on, every encounter brought on weeks of sleepless nights as I Google-image-searched the strange STIs I knew I’d caught through condoms that must be defective. My relationships never lasted very long, because I grilled my partners about their sexual health records until what chemistry we had was neutralized. I thought everyone was trying to infect me.
But the stronger the suspicion, the stronger the attraction. I didn’t realize it then, but my sexual proclivities and mental tics had developed synergistically: some part of me wanted to be taken advantage of, while the rest worried incessantly that I would be. The result was a strange contradiction: my desires reached a dead end which eliminated the possibility of satisfaction, but gave rise to the desires themselves.
By a stroke of luck, I found someone with a compatible set of issues. Disease-free sex has been free and easy for over two years now (and I’ve always thought that getting over germaphobia was a matter of finding someone whose germs you don’t mind). It’s been nice, and God knows I’m thankful to have found someone willing to put up with me. But being in a stable relationship has only reinforced the gaping chasm between fantasy and reality. The sex is great, but it’s relationship sex.
My sex life and my private thoughts are completely independent of one another. Of course, comfortableness and attraction are markedly different states, and the honeymoon period only lasts so long. But when your fantasies involve an element of abuse, love and desire can be difficult to reconcile. The idea of “lovemaking” has always left me a bit nauseated, and the thought of donning a gimp suit while my boyfriend paddles me on the ass seems good for a gag at best. Ours is a sex life that can’t be mediated by accessories, or hardened through suspension of disbelief. Fantasy is more about intention than anything else. I don’t think my boyfriend could pretend to be a “bad man” if he wanted to, and that’s probably a good thing.
But what’s strange is that my boyfriend and I have fantasy in common: in fact, his porn addiction is part of what united us in the first place (a story for another time). A latecomer to sex, adult films were his only recourse until he lost his virginity at 24. And as everyone knows, reality doesn’t eliminate fantasy: it only pushes it further. So here we are, like two bashful kids at a makeout party, holding hands while our single friends do things we could only fumble towards before collapsing in limp resignation. Sure, we can talk about what we want, but we can’t do it with one another: there’s just too much respect.
This is a common lament. Every relationship requires a compromise where sex is concerned. If it were anything else, we’d get over it: after all, part of being an adult is dealing with disappointments and personal shortcomings. But we’re steeped in a culture of sexual one-upmanship, and everywhere you turn, someone is boasting about the fun that you’ve never had. While everyone’s resigned themselves to the adage “you can’t always get what you want”—the guy who sang it never wanted for sex in his life. The coupled get flak for rubbing their love into single people’s faces. Perhaps this is our best defence.
Now that I’m mostly cured of my hang-ups, a part of me wonders why I’m not doing anything about it. Could I mute my conscience just long enough to satisfy my curiosities? If I finally sold my boyfriend on the idea of an open relationship, could I make the most of it? The guilt would be unbearable—but it would probably feel pretty good, too. Rifling through my sexual to-do list, I’m not sure. Nothing is ever as good as it is in your head. There’s a good chance that I’m as satisfied as I’ll ever be. ❤
