Answer Addiction

Tag: sober sex

  • Learning to Have Sex in Recovery

    Learning to Have Sex in Recovery

    I had forgotten that I was once again in control of my own life… I needed to take charge of my sexual experiences just like I had taken charge of my recovery.

    So you used to hang from the chandeliers and now you avoid seeing yourself naked in the mirror? I can relate, friends. When I made the decision to stop using drugs 21 years ago, I was told “the only thing I needed to change was everything.” While this was not entirely true, there was one area that needed a complete overhaul: my relationship to sex. I wondered how I would ever transition from substance-fueled sex to a physical interaction that requires a bit of delicacy, and, dare I suggest, intimacy? 

    It wasn’t easy. 

    Men Are Pigs

    For background, I was raised by two very conservative parents that stopped sleeping in the same room by the time I was 12. The only “talk” my mother had with me was to explain that “men are pigs.” Fairly vague, even for the 1980s. My exposure to “sex” was accidentally finding pornographic magazines in bushes, late night movies on cable tv, and being sexualized by drunk adults. Sex became hardwired in my brain as this thing that men required and to which women begrudgingly submitted. There was little to no information about having sex for fun. Sex was associated with a quiet sense of shame. 

    On top of this, I was fat, and that made me feel unfuckable in suburban Ohio. I was okay with this at some level – remember, “men are pigs” — but I still wanted to try it. 

    The summer of my 17th year, my world got turned upside down. I lost 30 pounds, and suddenly the neighbor boy wanted to show me his dick, which I found entirely confusing. He’d never even given me as much as a sideways glance. I frequently got teased for being a virgin until finally my first real boyfriend “took” what I never felt like I had in the first place. Was I supposed to be feeling something? Anything? I mostly felt indifferent. 

    Alcohol and drugs arrived on the scene at the same time I was trying to figure out the machinery of an adult woman. After a few drinks, I would feel this rush of male attention that suddenly made sense. I felt “sexy.” My sexuality was a lure to pull in a person I thought liked me. Sex became a way of gaining what I wanted, a way of garnering much needed attention. Sex suddenly became more interesting. 

    The first time I had sex with a woman, I woke up from a blackout with her underneath me. Oh hey. Sex was this jumble of things, many of which made no sense to me. I had no idea how to make this thing work. Where was the owner’s manual?

    A Sense of Urgency

    Imagine my surprise ten years later when, 24 hours into my last detox, my crotch suddenly sprung to life without notice. There was a sense of urgency to explore the areas I had so frequently ignored while steeped in a nod. Unfortunately, all this was taking place in a jail cell. My bunkmate complained to deputies I was keeping her up at night with my vigorous activities. For the first time in my adult life, my sexual experiences didn’t revolve around what I could convince someone to do to me or with me. I would have to figure things out for myself. 

    When the first 20 pounds of jail house grits and potatoes hit my thighs, I wasn’t particularly worried. I had become so thin after years of heavy use, I vaguely fit the stereotype of a woman. As I was flat chested with the collarbones sunken in, a bit of padding was a welcome addition on my bony ass…until it went from a folding chair to a whole loveseat. My reignited passion for life was matched by my love of food. 

    Slowly, incrementally, the increasing pounds began stripping away my self-esteem. The idea of fucking anyone seemed like an effort. I fell into a state of sadness. I would not consider letting anyone touch me, outside of a few random pats on ass from my “brothers” in the rehab. 

    This was in stark contrast to my life six months earlier. I had spent many years in a community of sex workers, thirsty bottoms, and quid pro quo relationships with the dopeman. There were no boundaries, and even less consent. In those days, my body was open for business, while my mind was frequently sedated and broken into tiny pieces. 

    What was the solution? My first sponsor insisted that I look at myself in the mirror every night while proclaiming “I love myself.” The intention was good but the reality felt forced. What was it I loved? My face– with a distinct scar across my forehead from a drunken car crash? My smile– which was marred by chipped teeth from grinding on meth benders? The insecure person inside? 

    My First Time…Sober

    Despite my fears, I had a growing interest to road-test the plumper machine. My first sober sexual encounter in recovery was clumsy. I was on a four-hour pass from rehab but I returned in less than 45 minutes. I don’t know why I had even bothered to take my pants off. I stuck my head against the wall in the shower, soaking in the regret. I was disappointed he didn’t even notice that my bra and panties matched. The nerve! 

    The second was much more extravagant. We went to a cheap hotel because he did not have the proper ID to visit my sober living. I barely knew him. I just knew he wanted me. He left me a gift: a ring of hickeys around my neck that made it look as if someone had choked me. This skin memento provided uncomfortable material for my next women’s support group. 

    “What are you getting out of this?” one of the group members asked me. 

    Was I supposed to be getting something? I had forgotten that I was once again in control of my own life. It had been so long since anyone had taken my feelings and my pleasure into consideration. I needed to take charge of my sexual experiences just like I had taken charge of my recovery.

    After bumping my head one more time in the early days– literally and figuratively as the person was quite acrobatic– I made a conscious decision to give my body the rest it deserved. Until I could unravel sex from the need for validation, I would be just fine exploring my own body without the bitter aftertaste. I had confused attention with affection. I presumed that desire meant connection. For me, none of these turned out to be the case. It wasn’t bad sex, per se. It was the fact that my expectations were far exceeding the actual experiences. I had done none of the work to heal my wounded soul and had greedily assumed my equally recovering body would be able to catch up. 

    My Body Is a Gift

    My story has a happy ending. It took many years of unraveling my emotional and physical baggage and eventually creating a filter, a boundary, and a screening process. I began to realize that it was 100% necessary to communicate my needs. I had to discover what I liked, create my list of dos and don’ts. 

    For the first time, I began to enjoy my sexual self with no shame. My body is a gift. Not everyone gets to unwrap it. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Sex, Drunk and Sober

    Sex, Drunk and Sober

    Once I got sober again, I’d like to say my behavior towards men was completely different, that I only had sex when I was one hundred percent sure I wanted to, that I didn’t judge and hate.

    I remember the first time I had sex. I was 26, far past the age of most of my friends, and I’d waited for the first man I really loved. My mom had said a few things regarding the subject when I was growing up: wait for someone you love, and act like a prostitute in bed. A bit different, the two pieces of advice, but both valid in their own rights. Fortunately or not, I took both pieces to heart. I waited, and I waited, and I waited… until I felt both safe and in love, and once I’d grown to feel comfortable in bed, I did act a bit; well, maybe I overacted.

    The important part is: I remember the first time I had sex. As in, I was in a dry period in my life, a period that stretched about eight years when I wasn’t drinking/drugging and I wasn’t going to AA. I’d had my first drinks (or drunks) when I was quite young, but then I waited until I was an “adult” to really let go. My freshman year of college, I drank all the time. I went to so many fraternity parties I lost track, and each time I got drunk and found myself on a stranger’s bathroom floor throwing up into the toilet, I told myself that it would be the last time.

    College Crushes and Fraternity Parties

    That same year, I found myself in love with a fellow freshman from my English literature class. I spent the semester obsessing about him, how I would lose my virginity to him, and my emotional virginity, too—I’d had a boyfriend before but he never really knew me. Our high school relationship ended about three months into the beginning of my drinking career, when I found myself dating his friend while I was still dating him long distance. Nothing I would have done sober. Everything I would find myself doing drunk. 

    Which leads me astray from the young man I was in love with, the one with the dreamy blue eyes. My roommate, who’d become a good friend, told me one Saturday that the man I had a crush on was hideous and pale and ugly. I knew he was pale, a quality I found attractive on him, but hideous and ugly—that was a bit strong for a guy she hardly knew. Or maybe that was the point – she was tearing into someone she hardly knew. She then told me he was having sex with her good friend, who wanted to turn him into her boyfriend. I took this as: stay away, let her have a go at him, as if he was a piece of meat. I guess we did see men as meat back then.

    That same day, he called me on the hall phone in my dormitory and asked me to come with him to his fraternity party, the same one my roommate and I were already going to that night. I told him as much, and said no. The truth is, after the conversation with my roommate, I was more interested in how I would get alcohol for the pre-party since we were still underage. My character defects were working overtime, and I had already decided I didn’t like him anymore. “Love” went to “like” in the scope of an hour. 

    I cared so much about what others thought—I was deep in my drinking stage (one of them)—and even though my roommate was looking out for her friend and not necessarily me, the warning was working: When we got to the party, each time my former love tried to approach me, we giggled and ran away.

    Later, a mutual friend called me up to his room. 

    “I can’t believe you’re acting like this, it’s so out of character. You’re hurting his feelings. I didn’t think you were like that.” 

    I had no defense. Had I been in touch with my feelings, I would have said, “I’m not capable of an adult relationship. I’m not really an adult.” The truth is I didn’t want the responsibility that came with age; as much as I’d spent my childhood wanting to be older, I now found myself wanting to feel younger.

    Sex and Blackouts

    I was drunker that night than almost any night in my entire life. When I ran from my crush, the way alcohol crushes love and right thinking, I was ruined by beer and vodka and grain alcohol punch. 

    Wine before beer, drunk for a year, beer before liquor never been sicker. I think it was the latter that night. But I can’t blame my behavior on the alcohol any more than someone who gets a DUI can.

    That night, I left the party with someone else—I ran straight into the arms of a young man from my high school, someone I thought was cute and kind, and he drove us to his dorm room where he started to try to take off my clothes. When I ran outside and threw up in the bushes, he brought me back in, stuck some toothpaste in my mouth, and started kissing me again and attempted to rape me. I was so drunk I couldn’t push him off, but I did say, “We know the same people,” which ended up having the same effect, thank God. A kind rapist, I remember thinking later, in my innocence, my youth. 

    I couldn’t have sex very often when I was drunk because I hardly had the capacity to move. I don’t remember one sexual encounter when I was drunk because, though I am sure that they happened, I was brown- or blacked-out at the time. Or maybe I have blocked it out. I do remember in my twenties asking strangers from bars and parties to come home with me, and then I kissed them and told them I wouldn’t have sex with them. I don’t remember anyone raping me when I was drunk, but I was putting myself at risk.

    Once I got sober again, this time with the help of AA, I’d like to say my behavior towards men was completely different, that I only had sex when I was one hundred percent sure I wanted to, that I didn’t judge and hate like I had with my college crush. The truth is, I am flawed, even sober, or maybe especially sober. I take full responsibility for my behavior these days, so I feel the flaws strongly. I am older, but I am not perfect. 

    Learning to Date, Sober

    I remember sex now, most of the time, and I enjoy it. It was difficult for me to feel when I was numbing myself, both emotionally and physically. Today, I have boyfriends who treat me well or I break up with them, even if it might take a little time to see the full extent of how they are treating me. I wish I could say it’s better when I date someone who is also sober, but relationships have their hard and soft angles, their anger and their beauty, whether we are drinking or not. I find that being sober doesn’t make us good people, but it does allow us to strive to be good people. 

    It’s not like I was a bad person when I was drinking, I was just too lost and empty, unable to find or create an ethical foundation for my behavior. I would read a book without taking it in, because I had nowhere to absorb emotion. I was a Flatsy, one of those dolls from my youth, where there is no space to put love, or its opposite.

    View the original article at thefix.com