February 1, 2000 marks the last time I had intercourse. Wow, fifteen years ago and it was with my ex-husband. We were separated at the time, and it was the day my mother died. Perhaps I thought it was comfort. Perhaps he thought I'd be an easy lay in my grief. To this day, I regret ever having the experience. Now that I've shocked you...
Fifteen years later, I've forgotten what it is like. Desire has died. There used to be a time that I longed for intimacy. Even though I was single, I wanted to be loved. I yearned for the touch of a man, a tender kiss, arousal, satisfaction, and most of all being a wanted woman (maybe I should say being wanted as a woman).
As a result, there were quite a few years of longing in a sexless drought. It didn't matter that I had passed the big five-0 age wise, sweat through menopause, and watched myself wrinkle, droop, and dry up--the desire remained, and the thought of it brought torture.
It seems, though, in the last six months there's been a death. Frankly, I'm not sure if there is a physical reason. To be honest, I think it's the death of hope that I will ever be wanted again. You can be assured that I have often complained to the power above that my sentence in life has been cruel and unusual punishment.
When I watch people kiss in movies or on television, it is such a foreign thing to me that it doesn't compute any longer. I've lost the knowledge of the feeling of a man's lips or the tingle that once traveled through my body. When I see R-rated movies or risque television programs of naked lovers, it's a hollow experience that resurrects no emotions in me whatsoever. There came a point in my life that I became so starved for affection and love, that when it went unfulfilled, desire died in my soul.
Oh, I know, all you satisfied singles may shake your finger at me and say, "but there's so much more to life than sex!" Sure there is, but none of it really fills the need for love, passion, and ultimate satisfaction (which is good for your health, by the way). To love and be loved is what life's all about. Unfortunately, the words to that old song are as by-gone as my sexual experiences.
I suppose if I live another 15 years of physical drought, it will all have faded away into an obscure memory of what was once the prime of my life for the purpose of procreation. To pass the time away, I'll visit the tombstone of "Desire is Dead" and leave a few flowers behind. Then probably sit down and write another smutty book.
P.S. Once again, another brutally honest post. :-)