The Sex Dilemma
Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Life in the Third Degree.
It comes as a clear revelation to me in the middle of a night when I’m sick as a dog and my head is foggy with cough syrup: I can fuck anyone I want.
Okay, with the exception of The Treat, who’s off-limits. But yes, anyone I want.
I’m free. I’m not married anymore. I’m not committed to anyone. I’m a healthy female with a solid sex drive, and more than enough men who’d be willing to oblige me.
For many divorced women, this revelation strikes the moment the divorce is final—or even before—and they’re busily making up for lost time all over town. But I don’t even think about it until another four months have passed. I have standards, but are those standards for any relationship? So far, only one man’s made it past a lunch date, so is it time to re-think my criteria?
On one hand, I’ve been celibate for a long time now, and I could do the Alpha Female thing and simply go get my physical needs met with no emotional attachment whatsoever. Regardless of what technology might offer a modern woman, there’s something to be said for interaction between a man and a woman. Though some people believe it’s status quo for a man but impossible for a woman to have no-strings sex, I beg to differ. Yet, I do think something would surely be lacking—a connection that adds layers of meaning and fulfillment. Really, can 15 seconds of jackhammer sex be worth a woman even leaving the house for? Sometimes…maybe. Make it 15 minutes and we’ll talk.
On the other hand, I’ve been celibate for a long time now, and I’m psychologically feeling like I’m a virgin again. How many women get to say that? How many get to start all over after so many years? And why would I want my next “first time” to be with a one-night stand?
I spent a horrid Valentine’s Day this year getting tested for everything under the sun to make sure I hadn’t left my marriage with anything “extra,” and I’ve gotten a clean bill of health. No HIV, no Hepatitis, nothing lurking in the shadows. Why would I want to throw myself back out into the dating-for-sex arena to risk the same fears I felt on Valentine’s Day this year? Even with latex, do I really want to be with a man who’s spread himself all over town?
It’s said that a metaphysical child is created out of each sex act, and what is created together can be a beautiful result of a sacred communion. It’s also said that you leave something of yourself with the other person. If I slept all over town, would there be anything left of me?
Too bad my doctor can’t prescribe something that would put my sex drive in cold storage until I’m ready to take it out again. That would solve my daily dilemma of whether to go for immediate gratification which would most likely result in disappointment and Lord-knows-what-kind-of boy cooties. Or do I keep playing the virgin, waiting for someone special enough to lose myself in all over again?
In a moment of doubt, I chat with a man who’s been flirting with me. He’s in his early 30’s, tan and cute and fresh from the beach. We really don’t have anything in common, and he senses that I’m losing interest fast. Quickly, he openly propositions me, and I raise an eyebrow at his lack of finesse. Desperate to seal the deal, he spouts out his dimensions—eight and one-quarter inches long and six inches around. The one-quarter is really important to him, and his voices hitches as he says it. I raise a second eyebrow, and I’m gone. He’s probably still wondering why I got the hell out of Dodge.
For me, it’s just another reason to wait to lose my re-virginity. At least one more day.