What if I never have sex again?

Image by the incredibly talented Stuart F Taylor

I haven’t had sex for over three weeks. I can’t remember the last time I did, either. Not the position or the length or the time of day, or even whether I came. Maybe we started with a soft blow job. Perhaps it began with his hands down my knickers or me begging him to watch porn and touch himself for me. I can’t remember when I last had sex, or how. And now I’m wondering: what if I never had sex again?

I don’t mean it in a self-pitying way. You don’t need to pat me on the shoulder and say ‘there there’ or give me sympathy. I’m just curious: what might my life look like if I never have sex again?

Firstly, I probably couldn’t complain about it: if someone announced that sex was finite, like helium, and needed to be rationed, I’d probably volunteer to be one of the ones who did without it. I love sex, and it would break my heart to abandon it forever, but I’ve had plenty of excellent shags over the last thirty four years, so it’s only fair to let other people have a go.

Secondly, I think my sex drive would probably just start to erode. My lust is pretty self-sustaining, in that the more recently I have had sex, the more likely I am to want more sex. As the time passes between shags, whichever part of my brain (or my cunt) is responsible for telling me I’m horny fades into the background. Like a neglected dog, it soon stops barking for my attention when it realises it isn’t going to get it.

Third, there’s the issue of my job. I’m not entirely sure how I’d go about writing a sex blog if I was neither fucking anyone nor interested in fucking at all. I could pivot, I guess, and do more sex toy content, but there are only so many ways I can write ‘had a lovely wank’ and still make it interesting. I’m not snarky enough to do the funny reviews, and I’m not knowledgeable enough to do genuine comparisons. I’d have to stick to writing either ranty posts about sexual politics, or focus on audio porn and other projects which don’t require me to come up with new stories.

I’d have to get a new job. Maybe making kinky furniture for people who were having more sex than I was, or editing sex stories written by those with more inspiration. Maybe I’d go back to the life I had before I was GOTN, and go sit at a desk in someone else’s office, making intelligent-sounding noises in meetings while desperately hoping no one will give me any more work.

What if I just don’t have sex ever again? When I first wrote that question down it sounded terrifying – my initial response would be ‘I’m a sex blogger! I’d lose my job and my boyfriend and my hobby and all I love!’ As if sex is the star around which the rest of my life orbits. Like if I stopped fucking my vagina would shrivel and die from underuse and I would crumble into a ball of frustrated, unemployed horn.

I wouldn’t though: I’d be fine.

But that doesn’t mean I actually want to never have sex again. I still love sex. And even though right now neither my body nor my mind really want it instinctively, the rational part of my brain knows that I will definitely want to fuck soon. Even if only in an intellectual way: as an exercise I force myself to do, to remind me why I loved it in the past.

Much as I sometimes write blog posts – like this one – which have no rhyme or reason other than to take words from my head and get them onto the page. Because I haven’t written anything since the morning of Christmas Eve, and right now the ‘publish’ button scares me. It’s been too long since I touched it, I’ve forgotten how it feels. And although I know that it’s basically fine – I write some good stuff, some bad stuff, and a hell of a lot of in-between stuff – right now writing anything seems so absurdly frightening.

Sometimes we fuck because we’re horny. Sometimes we fuck because we’re tired. Sometimes we fuck because we want to try out a new sex toy, or connect with someone, or distract ourselves from the troubles of the day.

And sometimes we fuck because it’s been three weeks, and the memory of why we liked it is fading. And although we have good fucks and bad fucks and a hell of a lot of in-between fucks, right now having any fuck seems so absurdly frightening.

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