What should’ve been a six month relationship stretched into seven years because of ex-sex. Every time T. and I broke up (let’s just say it didn’t take a blue moon), we’d encounter each other socially since we ran in the same circles, and next thing you’d know, we’d be up against a private wall or back at his place.
For a time, maybe four or five weeks, it’d be incredible. We’d hook up at 10, 11, 12 at night and just do what we did, what we did so goddamned well, until I always invariably left him just before sunrise for my long drive home.
(God, I loved those sunrise home stretches. I still remember that spent but relaxed drive with quality alone time and music, hitting that curve in the highway where the sun would be rising behind Mount Baker, glimmering over the distant ocean.)
But then we’d somehow fall back into the pattern of passion and caring for each other, and next thing you know, we’d be “an item.”
Then it’d all start falling apart all over again. The deconstruction would never take more than three or four months, usually less.
The funny thing was, when it was just sex, we were more there for each other. We’d have these really passionate conversations before and after. We’d lay there on his roof under the stars and talk about anything from poetry and film to philosophy and science. We could really count on each other emotionally, even if only in conversation.
Then convention would enter the picture and we’d start measuring ourselves against this perceived idea of sex and romance, we’d start getting jealous or bitter towards each other, and we’d crumble with a vengeance.
“That” guy, in those four or five blissful weeks, was a guy I thought I could be with for decades. He’s one of the primary reasons I’m as articulate and well-written as I am. He was a huge influence on me intellectually, and those nights of lying in bed, climaxing, then conversing… I’m not sure I’ve ever had such a dually pleasurable experience. Getting off physically, then intellectually… that’s really unbeatable.
And that’s what ex-sex can offer: a pared-down version of a relationship, where all you’ve really got is the intimacy. With that intimacy, tends, in my experience, to come a kind of simplicity that often gets lost in everyday relationships. Once you step out of the narrow confinces of ex-sex, relationships get bogged down with mundanities that tend to incite conflict or apathy. It’s a shame, but that’s how it often works, since that’s usually what killed it the first time around.
I love ex-sex. I love how right that wrong always feels. So goddamned right.
Hell, I want a longterm boyfriend right now just so I can break up with him and then crawl right back. I wouldn’t be the only one crawlin’, I assure you. That prolonged denial followed by incredible satiating… Always a wonderful thing.
So, I’m wondering what your ex-sex experiences were. Come on. You know you’ve had ‘em. After all, there’s nothing quite like being surprised with the familiar. There’s something great about ex-sex, just like going home again. It’s warm, cozy, moist, and good, and you already know it’s a failure, so you don’t need to worry about perfection or how it shakes down the next day, right?
So tell me about your experiences. Emotionally, did you find it easier? Did it seem more honest, less forced? More detached? Meaningless, even? Intimate? Better than it was during peacetime? Were you hurt? Did you care? Was it fun? How did it reignite? Did they push for more? Did you get back together? How did it get complicated, and did that end it? And whatever else occurs to you.