Sadness, Sex and Orgasms

sadness sex orgasms

I feel sad. No one died but I feel sad.

Sex and sadness seldom go together. When did you last see porn where someone was sad? We are all supposed to love sex and want more of it. What if you don’t?

To not want sex, if you are a woman, means you must be a lesbian, frigid, a professional virgin, an ice maiden, deathly ill or a man hater.

I’ve read about pills being created to boost a woman’s libido. Why do men seem to think their needs should be considered the right point of view? What if a woman (or a man) just isn’t interested in sex? Can that just be allowed and not turned into something else? It is entirely possible that sex isn’t all that desirable. What if you’re asexual and happy that way?

Sex is a real let down. Sex is lonely. Sex is messy and one sided. Sex is inconvenient. Sex is over rated.

I prefer BDSM over sex. I prefer kinkiness and fetishes over sex. I’d rather laugh at some poor little man in peril than have sex with him or let him have sex with me.

That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy an orgasm. I give myself excellent orgasms. Letting a man give me an orgasm is a chore. I have to focus on it, I have to let him touch me and I have to remove clothing I may not be in the mood to remove. Plus, I have to communicate, be nice and then deal with him before and after. What an annoyance.

All I really wanted was an orgasm. Sometimes I like penetration – but I don’t need a man for that. I have a soft vibrator which whirls and swirls in all sorts of patterns, strengths and motions. No man can do all that. As long as I have battery power I’m set to go. I have great orgasms as often as I want them. I used to have one every evening It was a good way to slow down my mind and settle myself to relax and sleep.

I’m not as interested in orgasms these days. Maybe it’s because I’m sad. Maybe I’m just getting older or maybe it just doesn’t seem all that important any more. I think it’s mainly the last one of those but a combination of all three.

Sex is made so important in our culture. Too important. We make the young people feel they should lose their virginity as soon as they have their first period and boys should be having sex daily. I don’t know who they are supposed to be having all that sex with. Personally, I have no interest at all in being a cougar. It really does seem you will be despoiling the young. I know so much more than they do. There are things in my head which should not be in their mind until they are at least half as old as I am.

We make people think they should be having┬ásex every day and if they aren’t there must be something wrong with them. Being a virgin is like saying you are broken or unwanted, unlovable. I was a virgin until I was 30+ and then I had the best sexual experience of my life – with the man I married (who was also a virgin). By today’s standards we were both mutant freaks. But… have you ever made love with a mutant freak who touched you as if you were precious and made you feel treasured? I have.

I’ve had dates where the man did not even look at me but assumed I’d have sex with him once we finished our coffee.

Compare those experiences. There is no comparison. I can never have the first again, it just won’t ever be the same. The second I turned down without regret.

It seems we lack emotion when it comes to sex. We see so much sex in movies and television, even in advertising. We become immune to it. Sex becomes background. I skip the sex scenes when I read a book. I get actually bored and feel dissatisfied when characters have sex in movies and such. It’s bland. It’s routine – no matter what new moves they add to it, it is not real enough to feel interesting. It lacks imperfection. It lacks emotion like sadness.

If you see people having sex when they are sad it is after a death. Why does someone have to die for there to be sex and sadness?

Why can’t sex be about real people? People who don’t want to bother with sex. People who play but skip the sex. People who may be sad and not want sex but still like companionship without being pressured or guilted into having sex.

This post is part of #AdultSexEdMonth

The Train Not Taken

Originally posted: November 17, 2006

He was on the train again. The guy with a shaved head, charcoal grey suit this time and a red silky looking scarf. No hat, he never wore a hat no matter how much it snowed or rained. I always watched him, shy, from my seat. Sometimes he noticed me, sometimes he didn’t.

I hadn’t seen him this past week. One whole week of commuting without seeing him. I had nearly cried on Friday night, thinking he must have moved or changed jobs and I would never have the chance to meet him now. I regretted not doing something, even something really dumb.

But, there he was back again. Same shaved head, same suit and that same smiley face. He was just one of those people who seemed to smile easily. Sometimes he had conversations with the people around his seat. He laughed easily too and it was a laugh that made me smile, even on the hardest days when I felt worn down to a stub of myself.

I had to meet him tonight, finally. I couldn’t let another day pass by. Maybe he had moved and today was one last trip on the old commuter train. My palms were slick and my stomach in knots but I just had to do something this time.

I knew I looked ok, not one of my better days for looks but it wasn’t too bad. Hopefully I didn’t get too wind blown while I was waiting at my stop for the train. I couldn’t quite dare reach up to pat my hair, he might look over at just that moment.

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My First Divorce

Originally posted to Sex Kitten (2003 – 2004)

That was when she looked at websites about disposing of bodies. Not that he was quite a body, he was still breathing after all. But… she was only curious really.

His head was heavier than expected, kind of like a really big cabbage she’d once cooked for making cabbage rolls. She had a hard time fitting it into the pot, the cabbage, not his head. Although, cooking him was an alternative under consideration.

What do you do with an extra husband after all? Once the marriage was over, he became kind of disposable, like an extra toaster after the wedding. You could always give it away, but somehow that seemed so small minded. Why saddle someone else with your spare toaster? Even more so with a used toaster, one you had cleaned up after, slept with and all that other labour and time not so well spent. Maybe, it was really more like having a sixth finger than an extra toaster. Imagine how awkward that sixth finger would be? Holding a pen would be like a wrestling match and typing would be, well… interesting.

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