Hold the press! Sex positive orgasm machine strikes out! No, it isn’t possible. Is it a bird? Is it a machine? No, it’s the selective serotonin uptake inhibitor. Come again? You know, the antideprassant.
I’ve been on the meds (with hushed tones) for a few weeks now. My main reason for succumbing to the Western civilication’s obsession about medication was simple in the end. If I experience nauseating cramps on my period I most certainly will take all the pills I can get my hands on. Is there really any reason for me to suffer from anxiety attacks and uncontrollable anger (with very much controlled actions) if there is a pill for it? I decided to try it out. If there are any other happy borderlines out there, say hi and feel free to share your own depencies. We tend to have a few.
I won’t bore you with all the sordid details and side effects. The feeling of a tight metal band around my head has finally just about ceased to be replaced by this totally uncharasteristic mellow attitude. I can’t write because I really just don’t care enough. (Who knew that art is made out of suffering? Well, um. I guess clichés can be true then.) I don’t feel like watching or reading anything. But I don’t get bored. It’s freaking me out – in a very intellectually intriguing sort of way – because I don’t get upset any more. I always carry books and magazines with me wherever I go, because I tire immedietly if I have to wait for something. Yet there I am, contently looking out of the bus window, contemplating something with no relevance to anything. Peaceful as pie.
Unfortunately the mellow attitude goes all the way from my snippy snappy neurons to my labia and clitoris. They don’t want anything anymore either. I can watch porn all I want, rub away with all the tricks I by now know, but I ain’t coming. In no time mellow has become apathetic. Dare I even say it – I’ve become content.
Yeasterday we had sex. It’s Saturday, the day of the sexual release for the people in the working world (Wonderboy that is), and we’re getting it on. Wonderboy’s very assertive as usual, trying out new positions from behind and pulling my hair so that I bend like a bow. First I’m having the time of my life. Suddenly I feel like there’s something missing and I realize. I don’t feel the sexual tension building. I’m at the same tickling but kind of blank point where we started at. He’s getting it going, blushing, getting goose-pumps all over his body, his little hairs are standing up, his nipples are erect and his mouth is slower, harder, hotter all over me. It’s like I’m standing on a balcony watching him. I feel less involved than I do watching porn. I’m somewhat disengaged and not even horny any more. I feel the thrusts and they feel good, but in a way that a massage might feel like. I think to myself, so this is how all the women feel like who can’t have an orgasm through intercourse. An educational fuck! Just the thing I need.
The biggest problem, for me, was that after a while, I didn’t really care either way. So, I wasn’t going to come. Okay, I might as well enjoy the show. I spent time sniffing him. I really like the scent of his armpits, it normally gets me excited to smell the sweat, even more so if his breath hits my face or I press my face to his scrotum. Oh, the special treats his body produces just for my nostrils! I let my fingers trail blushing skin, curly hairs. I stopped to feel flesh against mine, in me, moving in different ways. Pounding, moving aside the soft inner folds, caressing the skin. It felt weird to be in such a composed state in such an intimate and passionate moment. I felt like a sell out. He was lost in the passion, or so I thought, and I was watching his performance like I was grading him on it. (Later he told me he was bothered by my uninvolvement but didn’t know what more to do.) And for me it was all okay.
This from a girl who once threw her lovers things in to the hallway for not having sex with her. This from a girl who will ask for just one more, please after having an hour long fuck and lord knows how many orgasms. This from a girl who found herself getting off of the throbbing of the bus’s motor after just five days of orgasm denial.
The biggest problem, though, is that Wonderboy doesn’t usually get turned on if I don’t. He won’t come before I do. It leaves him feeling ashamed and privileged in the wrong way. I can understand him, because the things that we do could seem a little too… overwhelming if I don’t even come at the end. Like he says, where’s the fun if you don’t come?
It shouldn’t even be a surprise. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I swore to lose the pills the minute there was an effect on my sexual drive. The most important thing in our relationship and for our happiness is, in my opinion, sex. Call me shallow, if you like, but I’m just being honest, because sex is the glue of a relationship. Sex won’t work if we can’t communicate, if we’re sad or too stressed, if there’s something not right between us. And the other way around, communication starts to fall apart if we can’t be intimate, close, give each other pleasure. I think that Freud said somewhere that a person able to work and have sex, is a healthy one. I still thought I was one a few days ago. Wonderboy has always been able to get me off whether it’s demanded a little effort or a bit more. We’ve been in a stand still for a week now.
Yet still we have sex. As a matter of fact we had sex just a few hours ago. But first we spent the whole morning evading the subject. Wonderboy wouldn’t even get caught in a decent kissing let alone start petting. He just didn’t believe he could get me off. I think he’s the only guy in the world who’s passing on blowjobs on a weekly basis. There’s of course always the subject of reciprocity to consider. Even so, we fihnally got things going today. But sadly the only way for me to come is by his tongue and lips. I’m not saying anything about the inferiority of oral sex generally, just stating my own preferences, in this relationship. Which are Wondeboy thrusting like hell and preferably slapping and strangling me at the same time.
Because I want to have sex. Somehow, somewhere in my body there must be a clock that goes tickety-tickety-tick because I feel the need to have sex even though I’m completely content and can’t really be turned on. The satisfaction even goes so far that I don’t really feel like eating until I start to feel faint. I don’t crave anything.
So yesterday, after the disasterous fuck, I decided to only take a half a pill of my usual dosage of 1. Maybe it would take away some of the numbness but still keep my serotonin levels at a harmonious state. What a clever idea! I popped the half, and the other half this morning, both to carry through one day. I was feeling decent enough until we started talking about eating and I suddenly found myself attacking Wonderboy about being on a diet. The conversation just wouldn’t end, and it started to get pretty ugly. He went to take the trash out while I curled up on the balcony under the pretence of reading. Like I could at that state! I sat there and realized that I was back at square one. Half a pill didn’t do any good. The worst part was that we wouldn’t even have sex for me to try out the enhanced sensations because I got us straight in to a fight the minute I stopped taking the meds. Healty. So, if I take the pill, my sexual sensations are seriously dimmed, but if I don’t take it, I won’t have any sex, because my aggressiveness bounces into action.
Wonderboy came back from the yard, silent, and started to vacuum. After he’d cleaned the corners, always a passive-aggressive move in our house, we sat on the table. He caressed my cheek and my hair as I cried – and tried to swallow the other half of the pill at the same time. It was obvious what I needed to do, for both of us. Back on the pill.
We chose the possible orgasm strike rather than my self-inflicted orgasm denial.