Why I’m Starving For Sex — And It's Not As Simple As Getting Off

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It has been ten months since I moved into a quarantined existence, and I’m starved for touch. Particularly for sexual touch. Getting off is great, but not the same. No, I’m looking for something more.

For as long as I can remember, physical contact has been one of my primary love languages. I used to sit on the floor in front of my mother and lean my head into her lap. She’d be busy talking to a friend on the phone. I knew she’d stroke my hair if I waited long enough. 

I’d sit next to my dad during church service. He wasn’t the kind who hugged, but he’d hold my hand as he listened to the sermon. I’d look at his palm with its rough patches of skin, gnarled joints, and crooked fingers, and found comfort in its warmth.

Once I married as a young adult, sex became my new favorite way to connect. We used our physical relationship to grow closer. We communicated through touch, not words.

Immature, we could barely make eye contact as we moved in rhythm with one another. Yet, we discovered each other as we kissed, hugged, and made love. Through these vulnerable moments, we shared unspoken feelings.

Sex reminded us we weren’t alone. I had someone else who was there beside me. Someone who had committed himself to me and me to him. Who accepted me as I was.

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After orgasming, we would fall next to each other. In silence, we’d pant for several long minutes. Then I’d roll over and cover his neck with a bunch of kisses before I snuggled close. I’d tuck my nose next to his ear so I could breathe him in. Never had I felt so loved. So satisfied.

Last summer, I had my first hookup. It was someone I’d met on a dating app. He was a sexy-looking man — oddly enough, someone who looked like my ex.

We met first and had a friendly conversation. Several weeks later, we connected again — this time for sex. I had never done anything like this before. The whole thing was strange.

Previously widowed, I had just left my second marriage, which had been to a sex addict. He’d misled women with promises of love only to have sex and disappear. I wanted nothing to do with that kind of dishonesty.

I didn’t know this guy, nor did I love him. But I wanted this experience to have a level of integrity. No game-playing. No false promises. I just wanted to get off. To feel the skin of another person. To orgasm with intercourse.

I wanted to rediscover what the last marriage had failed to provide and reclaim what it had stolen.

I needed someone to think I was sexy. For this guy to find my arousal a turn-on. To find pleasure again in the experience of penetration.

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It was fantastic — some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

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Yet, it was also some of the emptiest because it lacked an emotional connection. After we had sex on two different occasions, I never heard from him again. Part of that is on me since I made no efforts. But it did its job of cleansing my sexual palate of the last terrible experience with my ex.

That was nearly seven months ago. Since then, I’ve hardly dated and have been even less sexually active.

And I’m hungry to be touched. To be loved.

It’s frustrating to be single. Hookups are a dime a dozen and available everywhere. But that’s not what I’m after.

I want to be seduced. To be caressed. To be adored. For someone to meet my gaze while he makes love.

I had a date last week. This was the fourth time I met this guy. Previously, we walked around town and talked. This time we met at my apartment for coffee.

He had asked us not to be sexually intimate. Fine with me since I was still getting to know him. Several times he ran his hands over my body. More like patted my hips, waist, and back with awkward touches. The kind that reminded me of a young teenager copping a feel when he knows he shouldn’t.

Where was the seduction? The lean-in for a romantic kiss? Why didn’t he pull me closer as he lightly ran his hands over my breast?

I texted him the next day to tell him it wasn’t working for me.

No, I’m looking for a man. Someone who’s not afraid of his sexuality or mine. Someone confident in his power yet listens to what pleases me.

Sure I could masturbate. But it’s not the same. It’s just me with me. There’s no emotional connection other than experiencing a physical release.

Yes, I’m starving, and there’s no relief in sight.

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Marie Lynne is a single-again psychologist who enjoys exploring all things related to sex, sexuality, gender roles, and intimacy. 

This article was originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission from the author.