I did not think I would be writing this, I thought I was becoming asexual, my body no longer affected by sexual urges. I thought I was withdrawing to heal, retreating into myself, revelling in my own company, with no need to allow another into my intimate space. I was happy with the label; wore it in comfort. I had shared beds and banter, conversations and flirtations but no part of me responded to the obvious offers.
I thought I was becoming asexual.
I thought I was safe sharing a bed: my body tuned out of responding to another’s. I had shared a bed with someone else the night before, wearing fluffy pyjamas with no thought of sex on my mind despite our proximity.
Chemistry is not the only explanation, though I suspect the weakening oxytoxic bonds to my previous night’s partner may have prepared me for a fresh influx of desire. But it was not just chemicals that drew me in.
The sensation off fingertips against my arm hairs, touch tender enough to barely graze their tips; gently caressing rather than insistently grabbing; contented rather than tactical; affectionate not demanding.
The warmth of naked skin against my back. I could feel my body heat rising, wanted to take off the T-shirt I wore but knew that to do so was to cross a line we had agreed not to. Neither of us wanted to have sex. Complication is best avoided. I agreed in all willingness, compliant and insistent in equal measure.
I thought I was becoming asexual. I was wrong.
Or at least, the phase passed rather rapidly.
I knew that if I took my top of to show my breasts, uncover my skin so it pressed naked against his chest, it would be raising the bar for both of us; inviting temptation; creating allure where no lure should be.
I lay there, thinking about not taking my top off, refusing to let my mind wander to where things might go if I did disrobe, for fear it would weaken my resistance. Thigh against thigh tempted me to wriggle back, press the curve of my arse into the ever-growing bulge that I was choosing to ignore. Hard. My mind could not go down those tunnels if I wanted to maintain my control.
A kiss; a stroke; a touch – all reminding me of how long it had been since I had felt the caress of affection. I had become accustomed to sex equating to harsh pounding and violent language, an endurance sport more than something to enjoy; each experience teamed with ‘harder,’ ‘faster,’, ‘deeper’, ‘more,’ no matter what was occurring. There was no ‘off’ switch – just ever greater extremes to fulfil.
That simple stroke of the arm reminded me of something my body had forgotten: tenderness. I could not allow myself to drift into sensual daydream for fear of the movements and actions it would inspire.
I could not let my brain explore when he moved from the bed to wank away his own temptation. I could not let myself think about his hand on his shaft, for fear of it wandering to my mouth at his cock: too easy to make come true; too complicated to pursue.
And so I lay there, not thinking, trying to sleep away the desire.
It is only now , safely distanced, that I can let my mind explore.
I am not asexual.
My libido is no longer dormant.
For now, it is enough knowing that it still lurks within me, a pilot light for whenever it is needed.
Read Part Two of Spring Awakening
Read Part Three of Spring Awakening
Read Part Four of Spring Awakening
Read Part Five of Spring Awakening
Read Part Six of Spring Awakening
Read Part Seven of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eight of Spring Awakening
Read Part Nine of Spring Awakening