It’s been over two years since I’ve been kissed or touched. It’s been six years since I was kissed or touched lovingly, by someone who saw sex as a shared physical act.
It’s been six years since someone touched me with a desire to give, not take.
Most of the time I don’t miss being touched. I don’t miss it, because when I think of it, I remember the times that are more recent. I remember the times with my ex. I remember sex with the Narcissist.
They are not good memories.
I remember being told I was doing it wrong. I remember being told my kisses were like I was “eating him” or being laughed at for missing his mouth when I didn’t really think that I had. I remember being positioned. My arm should be higher. My face should be tilted differently. I remember being told not to move. If I shifted my pelvis so his cock hit me inside at an angle that brought me more pleasure, or if, god forbid, I enjoyed myself at all and started moving, he would lose his erection.
He would cum only if I stayed still, inanimate, in the position he wanted me in.
I tried to make things more interesting. I tried to change positions with him. I went on all fours and had him behind me. I rode him and tried to help him that way.
Being on top was the worst. My legs weren’t strong enough. I wasn’t able to move right. I needed to hit the gym more. I couldn’t even x, or y, or z. It doesn’t matter what it was; to be honest I don’t even remember. But if I was on top the criticisms came fast and furious while neither of us did.
I wasn’t allowed to think about myself. If I enjoyed myself, if I stopped focusing solely on him, he would stop. He would get soft. He would try not to, he would try to hide it, but it was obvious. I could feel it.
In the three and a half years we were together, I’m fairly sure we had sex less than a dozen times. He insisted it was my fault. I did not realize until after the relationship that this was a theme. He didn’t have problems. We didn’t have problems. Only I had problems.
I had experienced sexual problems before. I had stopped being attracted to the ex before the Narcissist, I now realize, because I had fallen out of love with that man. I stopped being able to have sex with him because, with him, I had experienced what sex with love feels like, and I was unable to have sex without love when the love faded.
Sex with love had been new for me. Glennon Doyle Melton writes in Love Warrior about feeling out of body during sex. I was like that once, too. I wasn’t present. I could orgasm and always did because mentally I made it happen. What was happening to my body wasn’t happening to me, though. I was somewhere else, floating above the scene, performing the way I thought I was supposed to.
And then I fell in love and sex became something truly different. Sex was a raw connection, it was intense and powerful and it was primal and electric, it was orgasming so intense that years of pent-up emotion released in screams and sobs and begging and clawing and convulsing and the purest of joy.
And then the love changed and the sex changed and I should have known then that the relationship was over. Sadly, I didn’t. That’s another story for another time, though.
When I met the Narcissist I had only been single for a year. I had tried to have sex during that year. I had tried to have empty, meaningless, purely physical, sweating heaving bodies slamming together in an attempt to drown out the emotional pain sex, and I had failed. I wasn’t able to do it. I couldn’t have sex without love anymore. That part of me was gone and done. I didn’t realize at the time what a blessing that was. I didn’t realize it had happened. I was confused about why my sexual encounters kept failing when a mere few years earlier I had been such a dynamo, so enthusiastic, so able to stoke a man’s fire and leave him breathless yet wanting me even more intensely the next day. I couldn’t figure out what had happened and why I had lost that.
And then I met the Narcisssist. And he wanted me. The first time we had a real “make-out session” he kept telling me how much he wanted to just “slam it in me.” (In retrospect, that should have been my first sign that I should run for the hills.) The second time we made out, not long after, I let him. I was on top. He did, indeed, slam it in me. That’s what I remember of it. He slammed his cock into me, about a dozen times, and then he was done. There was no finesse to it. There was no awareness of my pleasure. He slammed his cock into me.
I tried to make our lovemaking more pleasurable, more sensual. He didn’t want me to go down on him. He wouldn’t let me run my lips over his body, slide my hands over him, appreciate his beauty the way I wanted to. I wasn’t allowed to do the things I had always loved doing to the naked male of our species. I couldn’t lap at his inner thigh and bite him gently. I couldn’t hold his legs wide and nuzzle that little spot between the top of his thigh and his ass, right beside his testicles. I couldn’t lick my way all over his abdomen, teasing him, making him wait for the moment when I took his cock in my mouth. I couldn’t bite at his nipples or kiss him gently, then increasingly passionately, while my hand slid down to cup his balls and moved down further to tickle his ass.
“That just doesn’t do anything for me,” he would say, and he wouldn’t allow it. All he wanted was to “stick it in me.” Each time. Without getting me wet first. Without kissing me.
And the problem, he said, was with me. The reason our sex life was terrible was me. I hadn’t had real relationships before, he said. That was the reason why I was so bad at lovemaking. I didn’t understand how sex was in a relationship. He had never had any problems with anyone else, he said. I had, so clearly the problem was me.
One time, only once, I wound up truly satisfying him, and it was only because he wasn’t expecting it. We were in the shower together. He liked us taking showers together. He didn’t like the smell of my pussy if it hadn’t been washed only seconds earlier. Not that he got close enough to smell it anyway, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t like my body. He didn’t like my odors or the fact that I was a normal human being. He wanted me clean at all times. Hairless. Beautiful without having put any effort into it.
A porn star. He wanted a porn star. And like is the case when watching porn, he didn’t want smells, or sweat, or… another person there at all, really.
But I digress. He wanted to shower together, so we did, regularly, and I was sometimes allowed to go down on him a little in the shower but not really because he didn’t like it much, and mostly it was just him slamming it in me from behind while I tried to brace myself against the wall of the shower to keep myself from falling down and took myself out of body so I could pretend what was happening was enjoyable and try to achieve some semblance of an orgasm before he either finished or got soft or simply lost interest and gave up.
But this time, he allowed me to pleasure him. This time, he didn’t stop me. He stayed still and allowed it. He enjoyed it and, this one time, allowed me to give him a strong, wonderfully intense orgasm. It was glorious and so gratifying. It was what I had always wanted to be allowed to do for him.
And then he freaked out on me. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want me near him. I knew this should be a moment of togetherness, of emotional closeness, of intimacy between two people who love each other and who have struggled together to achieve a pleasurable sex life. He wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t talk about it. He got angry at me and punished me with distance and silence for days.
And that’s the last time I brought a man pleasure. I don’t remember how long ago it was.
The last time we had sex was the night before Halloween in 2015, our first Halloween in our new home. I was particularly delighted about it because, as poor and unsatisfying as our lovemaking was, this was the second time in a month after about six months without any attempts at all. I was overjoyed. Perhaps we were getting somewhere. Perhaps there was hope. I floated through the next day on a cloud of optimism.
The following night, on Halloween, he shattered all good feelings I might have while watching me answer the door for Trick or Treaters. I had never lived somewhere where this might be an option, and I had been excited about seeing all the neighborhood kids in their costumes for months.
The Narcissist sat on the couch. He sat, and he watched, and he criticized every interaction I had with every person who came to the door. He refused to get up even once, and made me do it every time. With every single one, he found something I had done wrong, some reason to mock me and how I had managed the encounter.
By the end of the evening, I was in tears. The worst part was, I believed all that he said. I believed his criticisms were valid. He had seen and pointed out countless points of evidence showing I was terrible at talking to people, terrible at being kind or having fun. I believed him that I was awkward, that my mere presence made people uncomfortable, that I shouldn’t try to do anything like that ever again.
When Halloween 2016 rolled around, one a year later, I had just broken up with him three weeks earlier. The entire week of Halloween, I was a mess, reliving the disappointment and emotional pain of the previous year, feeling it in a way I had not allowed myself to at the time. I could not stop sobbing. For a full week in the fall of 2016, I sobbed constantly and uncontrollably.
Now, yet another year has passed. It is January of 2018. And the truth is, I can’t imagine having sex. I can imagine it, but I can’t imagine it with any pleasure. When I think of someone touching me, licking me, doing the things I once craved and thoroughly enjoyed, I remember being positioned. I remember not being allowed to move. I remember my pleasure being inconsequential. I remember being superfluous to the proceedings.
Still, I dream of finding physical pleasure again someday, and with that, finding that part of myself once again. I dream of letting a kiss happen and slowly, oh so slowly, building up enough trust in someone to allow them to touch me under my clothes, to strip me naked, to love and honor my body the way the man before the Narcissist once did. I dream of being given an orgasm so intense that years of emotion will pour out in my moans as I clutch the man on top of me and beg him for more. I dream of giving pleasure and receiving it as two people engaging in a sexual encounter are meant to do.
I dream of someday being good and truly fucked once again. It’s been over six years since it last happened. I hope it won’t be another six until it happens again.