I am surrounded by Swinging Poly Kinksters, and I have no sex drive.

I am surrounded by Swinging Poly Kinksters, and I have no sex drive.

Now, that’s not an entirely true statement. Emily Nagoski helped me understand and disprove the concept of sex being something you have an actual “Drive” for… “Drive” is about things that are necessary for survival. Nobody has ever died from lack of genital stimulation. Emily Nagoski also helped me understand the concept of responsive desire. This means that I don’t go around thinking about pizza, but if someone puts a pizza in front of me I’ll savor all the cheesy goodness with pleasure. But none of that helps with the feeling of being defective in some way because I WANT to want sex. I want to have the urge to go downstairs at the parties where people are literally a few feet away from me having screaming orgasms. I want screaming orgasms, too! I’m envious of those feelings and of the interest in sex that I’m surrounded by.

Me? I’d rather be upstairs having a conversation than go downstairs to be licked, and poked by any number of my friends of both genders that would happily oblige. I have no moral objections to NSA sex, no concerns about accidental pregnancy and am comfortable with the proper use of barriers to prevent STI’s. I have a group of sex positive friends who are (mostly) intelligent and caring people that also have sex outside of their primary relationships and primarily within this close social network. I have an amazing husband that loves every zaftig inch of me and is turned on by the idea of me having sex outside of our marriage. He doesn’t view it as a bargaining chip that he could use to have sex with other women or any other secondary motive. My biggest complaint about our sex life is that no matter how much lube we use, my vagina seems to have a maximum thrusts per day before it becomes painful. And hell, I’m the kind of masochist that LIKES a certain kind of pain. So, what the hell?

In trying to find other ways to explain how this feels I thought about being an alcoholic at a bar. But that implies a negativity to the subject and a distinct refusal to partake. So… dieting at desert? No. Clinically depressed at Disney Land. Well, that struck a nerve! Firstly because we did a trip to Disney World last summer and it was top 5 in the ‘Worst Experiences in the World’ for me. But also because of the clinical depression factor. 

I know I have depression. I’ve dealt with it my entire life and made a conscious choice to not take psyche meds for it after several years on Prozac and a really rough time coming off it. I’ve researched all the foods and lifestyle changes that can help with depression but the best holistic treatment is exercise, but I’ve had chronic pain and issues with my hips for nearly 15 years. Exercise causes pain which causes the depression and anxiety to spiral until all I can do is lay in bed and cry.

The last time I went to my doctor for a physical, she noted my chart with “OBESE” and gave me a referral for physical therapy for my hip pain. The therapist said that my tendons are hyper flexible and tried to work with me on strength training so my muscles would hold things in place better. The pain was so bad that after 2 sessions she said that I needed to get into pain management before she would see me again. Pain management means drugs and I’ve learned the hard way that having prescription pain medication in my home is a bad thing so of course I never followed up. Instead, I’ve tried to push myself to exercise, eat better and drink less. That usually lasts a couple days before we have steak and wine night followed by lazy hangover day and greasy food remedies. And the cycle starts over again.

Beyond the physical issues there’s even more. I know that I was a product of our culture. In my 20’s I knew all about being sexy but not much at all about my own sexuality. Most of the sex I had until my early 30’s had nothing to do with the act of sex, but everything to do with the twisted concepts about sex I had learned along the way. Sex was about power. Sex was about control. Sex was about becoming an object of desire and about chasing the “naughty” with all of the roller coaster thrills that come with it. Sex was seldom about me or my body. And even when it was, I was simply on display and being commanded by another. “No, you’re not done, Baby. You’re going to come again for me.”

I studied the physiology behind sex so I could give a better blow job. I stayed thin and bought new boobs so I would look good naked. I slept with married men and bosses because I could. I had FMF threesomes because two chicks together is considered the ultimate sexy. And once I realized that I didn’t want to be that person anymore I lost all sense of self. I was tired of being objectified and gained weight. I was over being anyone’s secret so I vowed to stop being the other woman. I needed honesty and transparency and I found it with My Mr. in ways I’d never imagined possible. But I never really figured out my own sexuality.

Here's what I do know: I know that I’m not sexually attracted to women at all and to pretend otherwise is dishonest and icky. I know that I need to feel valued as a person before I’m comfortable fooling around with anyone. (See: sapiosexual and possibly demisexual) I took certain sex acts I tolerated but seldom enjoyed and set a hard boundary around them. I discovered an interest in BDSM and that energy exchange is the ultimate fuel for my fire. But my responsiveness is so hit or miss that it frustrates me and My Mr. And all of this while swimming the sea of non-monogamy where we not only go to parties where group sex is happening one floor below, but we host discussions about sex and sexuality and have become a part of a community that is based on sexual freedom and acceptance of ones’ self. Sometimes I feel like a total hypocrite or phony for it. I teach others how to be open and accepting of themselves but here I sit unable to untangle all of the crap that is strangling me.

I feel like a vegetarian at a barbecue. It smells so good but I can’t make myself want it. And I’m envious of everyone around me enjoying their steak. That envy just makes it all the harder to enjoy the rest of the backyard and feel at home.

We are going to a Truth or Dare night this weekend and I’m trying not to make a big deal about it. In the past the host had not specifically emphasized the play aspect of these parties, but the flirty fun with a side note about the basement activities. My Mr. actually created the new digital version of the game and is co-hosting so when I saw the way the party was written up I had to just swallow my usual anxiety and push through. Otherwise I wouldn’t even agree to go. I hate play parties with all of the expectation and the single-mindedness that others bring to them. I want to want to be part of that scene. And I want My Mr. to have his own stories and experiences. But I don’t know if I know how I really feel about it all and I’m dreading the long drive home if I’m not able to keep it all in check.

I need a massage. And to put on my sneakers and enjoy some sunshine. And next month when I go back to the doctor I need the courage to talk about all of this and look into ways to make it better.