Sunday, January 11, 2015

Sex, Love, and Romance in my Thirties

Is it wrong to want to break up with someone because you want more sex?  And also, who exactly am I supposed to talk to about this.  All of my fabulous, hilarious, insightful girlfriends are in other time zones.  So I rely on you, the interwebs, to answer my burning and deeply personal questions.

I thought it was silly to worry about sex.  Of course, in my last relationship it was never an issue.  Sex was something that could happen up to three times a day if I was game, and I ended up bored, tired, and frankly spoiled.  Now I'm lucky to get laid three times in a week.  And I thought it wouldn't be that big of a deal, but my libido seems to be building up a resentful store of excess sexual energy.  I feel like a teenager, eager to rub up against the next hot piece that walks by. Which is really not me.

Of course, I had my twenties, during which time I pulled down more ass than...something that pulls down a lot of ass.  2002 to 2006 was my golden age of hooking up and getting laid.  But then I settled down, got my heart broken a couple of times, and got married.  Monogamy suited me, and I rarely found other men and women attractive.
Newly single for the first time in 6 years, this summer was full of tentative flirting and my first hook up in *years*.  Which turned into a relationship when I wasn't looking.  I realize now that I kind of resent that; I missed out on a short period of wildness and experimentation by settling down with the first dude I hooked up with. 

So what's a gal to do?  First thing, as an adult, is to bring the subject up.  Awkward though it is, as grown ass adults who engage in adult behavior, we owe it to our partners to be honest and open with them about our needs, wants, and desires.  It's called a conversation, have it.
Then....we play the weighing game.  Weighing the pros and cons, doing the relationship calculus to figure out how much these things matter, when compared to the positives.
It is a strange thing to feel uncompromising in one's thirties.  I continually expect to feel like I am out of time, and should be grateful for what I can get.  And sometimes I do, but more often than not I find myself basking in a confidence that was unknown to me in my twenties.  I know that I am rare and odd and wonderful and pleasing in many ways.  I am a catch, crazy and all, and so the idea of compromising seems defeatist, weak, and small minded.  I actually find myself believing that there is such a thing as the perfect guy, and that I can find him, deserve to find him.


All of this makes me feel a bit like a whirling dervish of  affections, seeking, sex, and romance.  Doors fling themselves open to me, and I open and close them, rechecking the contents contained within against those behind the next door.  Obviously it's unsustainable, but it's fun right now.  Crazy, confusing fun.