(NOT) SORRY IF THIS MAKES YOU SQUIRM

I had sex last night.

I blurt the sentence into my laptop like I’m a sixteen-year-old or, at the oldest, a college freshman. There’s an initial “hee, hee” and then a sobering “huh”. Is that really what I’ve been missing?

To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever figured out sex. I guess things didn’t bode well when, in the upper grades of elementary school, guys started laughing at every reference to the word “balls” and I didn’t have a clue what was going on. My confusion only made them laugh harder. By high school, it was all part of the routine. We’d assume our regular table in the cafeteria, someone would crack a sex joke and then all eyes would be on me. Finally, I’d say, “I don’t get it”, someone would fill me in and then, at last, I’d laugh. More often than not, I still didn’t get it.

The same goes for sex itself. None of it in high school. By senior prom (a ridiculously big thing in East Texas), I felt incredible pressure to actually have a date rather than being the perennial third wheel. After a couple of crushing “no thank yous”, Lori Bancroft startled me with, “I’d love to.” With a couple of weeks before the big do, we were officially dating. Or maybe “technically dating” would be the more accurate label. I’d pick her up in my very old silver Plymouth Duster, we’d go for pizza and then I’d drop her off again. No contact whatsoever. An hour into prom, she’d dumped me for the brainier and hopefully handsier Jeff Hall.

I don't know if this is the album I chose but 

I had this oversizeed poster tacked above 

the bed in my dorm room.                         

University was another period of what I’d described to a relentlessly prying roommate as “voluntary celibacy”. There was one night during the spring of my freshman year when I took a very drunk Karen Wysocki back to my room—mostly so my friend Michael could hook up with her friend Lynn—and I tried to put things off deliberating on what album to play on my stereo. Somehow we ended up kissing on my bed and she stripped down to her bra—not my doing, to be sure—before she pulled away and vomited. Thank goodness. That was it for college sex.

Four years after graduation, I was still hopelessly celibate, although I’d placed the word “involuntarily” in front of it, at least during moments of self-reflection. The most I allowed myself was a few guy crushes and a lot of lusting over the covers of GQ, back when the magazine still led with male models instead of celebrities.

I wisely moved from Texas to Los Angeles, hoping a less stifling environment might loosen me up. After being in Malibu for a month, and a couple of weeks shy of my twenty-fifth birthday, sex finally happened. It wasn’t much. Truth be told, that would describe most every experience since.

I wonder if I’ve evolved at all since being that clueless kid decades ago. More than that, I wonder if sex is overrated. Is it overhyped on sitcoms and overdone in movies, an act of such urgent carnal desire, that minds are blown and suddenly there’s a whole new perspective on life itself? But then I have to make sense of reality, too. When partners in my past talked about some of their most noteworthy sexual experiences, what they described far exceeded anything we ever did. Why not me? Why not us?

I blame myself for what I’ve felt has been a lifetime of infrequent, ho-hum sex. My own wants have been marred by fear and insecurity. The fear began with the notion that I was going to hell. With the AIDS crisis, the ticket to hell seemed to be printed with my name on it, ready for pickup. Surely, if I did anything at all, I was going to die.

Thankfully, fear has subsided in recent years. It’s just a generalized feeling, something habitual that seems to have morphed into hygienic worries and a resurgent introverted personality. I try to shoo the fear away. The insecurity, however, remains as strong as ever. I don’t feel good enough, not in terms of my body, my performance, my worthiness. This feeling is affirmed during almost every sexual experience. Typically, things feel very much one-sided.

As we lay beside each other last night after it was all over (That’s it?! I wondered), Darian started sharing all sorts of pics on his phone—vacations and such. As he is significantly younger than I am, I recognized the routine, a sort of emotional catch-up after physical intimacy. While scrolling, he asked, “How come you finally responded to me? I’ve been trying to get your attention for years.” Sure enough, when I logged back into the hookup site I rejoined two years ago after a breakup, there were at least a dozen nudges from him spanning the entire period. They hadn’t stood out. A random profile pic of one’s chest, however nice, does not make a lasting impression.

At fifty-five, I’m bent on defying that saying, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. My New Year’s resolution is to find sexual liberation. It comes after going through all of 2019 without sex. (Heck, I once went through a fourteen-year dry spell in my thirties and forties, a punishing period which reinforced my thinking that I was a repulsive pariah.)

“I’m moving in three months,” I told Darian.

“But we’ve just met.” It was an odd response, being as he’d just told me about the partner he’s had for the past year, a decent enough relationship except for—wait for it—the sex.

The way I see it, now is the perfect time to attempt to finally shake old sexual demons. Intent on selling my place and finally leaving Vancouver, this is a rare time in my life when I’m not yearning for a relationship. I don’t need anything complicating my resolve to move on. It’s the perfect time for casual sex when “no strings attached” has no asterisk floating about in my mind.

I don’t know how this will play out. Things may fizzle quickly, just like most resolutions. Still, if I can explore a little more, perhaps I can temper the chronic fear and insecurity. Maybe by the time I settle in Toronto in early summer, I can bring a healthier, freer mindset to sex if I should find myself in a new relationship. Maybe I’ll become more assertive in having more of my needs met. Maybe I’ll finally feel like I’m doing “it” right.

As I sat up in the bed and started to get dressed, Darian asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m heading out,” I said. “We’re done, aren’t we?” My feet were getting cold and I didn’t want to overstay my time. I could see one of my friend’s photos of Hawaii if I really wanted to. As I boarded the elevator, I smiled. It was only January 2^nd and I’d dipped into acting on my resolution. I’m ahead of all those smokers who’ve gone off and bought another packet of cigarettes and the dieters who’ve scarfed down an oversized Hershey’s chocolate bar, “hidden” away in a kitchen drawer. Let the resolve continue.