In Defense Of Ex Sex

In Defense Of Ex Sex

In Defense Of Ex Sex

Having sex with your ex-husband: good idea? One woman tells her ex sex story.

couch the next morning, but after a few seconds the whole sorry scene came crashing back, along with a throbbing headache and aching limbs and eyes puffy from crying myself to sleep. I lay very still and waited for the usual wave of recrimination and self-doubt that usually follows in the wake of my drunken bad behavior, but there was none. In its place was a profound sense of well-being. Our marriage was resoundingly over, and now that I'd finally mourned its loss, I could let it go.

Hear that, girlfriend? You need to open that door and face whatever's behind it, if you know what's good for you. Then slam it shut and find someone new.

Written by Anna Roth for Nerve.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that "sex with an ex" falls somewhere between "crush on a co-worker" and "affair with a married man" on the great Don't Go There continuum—an emotional quagmire, best avoided if you know what's good for you. You're playing with fire, psychologists admonish would-be repeat offenders in their advice columns and call-in shows. It will only bring back a flood of emotions. Find someone new and keep that door shut, girlfriend. Nerve: Sex, Lies & Pubic Hair On The First Date

With all due respect, I think the advice columnists are wrong: breakup sex is way underrated. Sure, it has the potential to be misleading and self-destructive, but so does a one-night stand with a total stranger. Under the right circumstances, I'd even argue that one last round in the sack can be an essential, healthy step towards the Holy Grail of all breakups: closure. Take it from me. I slept with my ex-husband three months after our divorce was final, and it was one of the best decisions of my life. Nerve: Why I Get Sloppy Drunk On Dates

He and I had been lovers all through college and married the month after graduation. From then it took us three rocky years to admit that somehow the unthinkable had happened—we had woken up from the fairy tale as unexceptional twenty-five-year olds who fought more than we should, hardly ever had sex, and no longer had much of anything in common. Despite a mutual decision to sever ties, the incision was far from clean. I moved to California, and in my absence, he took up with my best friend. I broke down, spent a month in bed, and when I finally emerged from my gauzy stupor I told him to stop calling me. Months passed when our only communication was brisk emails about practicalities. Slowly, tremblingly, I established a separate life for myself thousands of miles away from him. It was only after all the paperwork had been stamped and filed, and my life had started to take recognizable shape, that I was able to admit to myself that I missed him. Nerve: How The Financial Crisis Ruined My Love Life

We started corresponding again. Slowly at first, just emailing funny things we'd read or heard, but soon we were Gchatting and texting four or five times a week, and sometimes talking on the phone late into the night. I didn't tell anyone about this. I already knew how my friends would react—sternly remind me how much he'd hurt me, how hard it had been to get over my emotional dependence on him—and I was afraid that they were right. Even though I enjoyed my long conversations with him, I didn't trust them, and I couldn't shake the guilty feeling that I was cheating on my new self with my old one.

Ten months after our breakup, I was back in town and called to see if he wanted to get a beer. I used the pretext that I needed some stuff from our old house, but really I just wanted to see him, find out where things stood between us. I took certain preventative measures: I asked him to meet me in the early evening at a bright, family-friendly brewpub and picked clothes and makeup that made me look good, but not like I was trying. In case I tried to do something regrettable, I took out an insurance policy by arranging to meet my most judgmental friends at a nearby bar two hours after I was set to meet him. Keep that door shut, girlfriend. Nerve: The Virtual Pet That Embodied My Breakup

He was (characteristically) late. As I waited in a black vinyl booth, I tried to divine the source of my sudden nervousness. We knew each other better than anyone, but I didn't know how I would feel when I saw him, and it scared me. I needn't have worried. He was just the same, or nearly so—his thick Greek hair was slicked back into a bun. Gross, I thought, and relaxed. This person sliding into the booth across from me was no threat to my equilibrium.

We started out with pleasantries—gossip, biographical tidbits, things we'd been reading, just two old friends catching up. But the conversation turned personal somewhere into our second beer. We talked about the ups and downs of our six-year relationship, the strangeness of dating and sleeping with other people, the emptiness of making out with strangers at parties. Our friends had encouraged it of both of us, and I told him it always made me feel that much more alone. He nodded understandingly; I'd forgotten what a relief it was to have a conversation with someone who always knew what I was talking about. Two hours passed in a blur, and as our intimacy deepened, I was glad I had a reason to leave. Nerve: How Mosquitos Doomed Our Sex Life

He insisted on walking me to the next bar. I was grateful for the lingering June light as we dawdled in front and shared a long goodbye embrace; there were no shadows or dark corners to get lost in. I savored his closeness, but then remembered myself and quickly took my leave. Inside, I found

Join the Conversation