I confess, I drink to have sex. There, I said it. I used to really enjoy sex. I wanted it all the time. Not in an addictive way, I think, but more of a search for connection with old boyfriends. It’s something I am good at and could easily use to connect with a man. In some cases it was the only connection I could make. So boyfriend after boyfriend and finally into marriage I would summarily find myself buzzed prior to coitus. I never thought much of it until these last few months. My husband even made a remark about how I always seemed to “have to drink” before we had sex. My eyebrows peaked and my heart went into my throat. “you know, he’s right,” I thought. I rarely drink to get drunk and on an even rarer occasion I might imbibe so much as to kneel before my porcelain God, but we are talking maybe once every other month DRUNK, if that. But I do drink to have sex.
Drinking to have sex is different. It’s like putting a fuzzy lense on a picture you really don’t want to look too hard at. You might see the reality of it. You might admit that it’s not working. I didn’t drink to wash away my problems, I was drinking to accept them with a kiss. I want so hard to love this man who loves me so much it hurts. I want to give him all of me, so I could give myself in the name of our relationship. He does everything he can to please me and yet I feel numb and distant because I know that I’m not into him like I should be. He looks at me like a goddess. I look at him like a pet. I adore him but feel as if I have to take care of him or he’d never survive. He looks at me like I am the bearer of all fruits. I’m tired of being his personal “giving tree.” I adore his affection, it’s contagious, but it hurts more because I cannot stand to scar him with my truth.
So I drink a few rum and cokes before a night of debauchery. Then I can enjoy myself. I’ll fantasize about women. He’ll work his magic and then everything is ok. The next day I’m reading lesbian love stories and writing in my secret blog. I’m living a lesbian hangover. I am my own Coyote Ugly. I wake up to look at my own face and say WTF? I see a closeted woman asking me why I’m still there. Why am I not being true to who I really am? Am I punishing myself for feeling this way? Maybe if I gave him a threesome it would somehow make up for the fact that I want her breasts against my body and not him between my thighs? Who knows. I just know that I have to own up to what I want. Why is that so damn hard?
Do you have a confession? Do you drink to have sex? Do you wait till he or she goes to bed before sliding under the covers? Tell me, how did you or do you currently attempt to “deal” with your lack of lust?
I am a drinker with writing problems. ~Brendan Behan