I have been celibate for almost two years. I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t thinking about sex right now. I miss sex. I miss that moment when it slides in and my whole body wraps around it like a memory foam mattress. The grip and release. Sex has so many benefits, sometimes I wonder why I gave it up.
Do you know how long two years is? 730 days. I did it on purpose. I chose to be sex free. Yes, I’ve dodged many bullets shaped like men. I dodged men that didn’t care much for who I was more than what I could do for them. I was just this woman, this body, this warm place for him to rest himself inside of me over and over again.
Yes, I’ve managed to navigate relationships without offering sex first. I demanded men to get to know me and faced more rejection than I anticipated. I asked myself if I was good enough. I wondered if the me I demanded be known was a turn off.
To the wrong men, my personality meant nothing.
It wasn’t my humor that attracted them to me, it was the size of my breasts and the shape of my hips. So, when men asked what I was doing after the club, I responded, “I’m going home” knowing that I would just be a body in his bed. I didn’t want to cheat myself when I knew I wanted more.
Two years. It’s been two years of building my confidence. Being sexy didn’t mean taking my clothes off. Sexy started when I began to take care of my body. I worked out. I ate better. My skin began to glow. I was stress free. The men that gathered in my DMs began to search for new inboxes to call home. I had been uplifted to a new standard of expectations.
I didn’t just want a man with an appropriate sized bulge in his grey sweatpants.
I wanted conversation and spirituality. I didn’t want him to tell me I was beautiful. I wanted him to see past my eyes and see my soul on a deeper level. Connection beyond his grip on my ass. I wanted connection that could transcend the universe.
Two years ago, I was having sex every other day. I can still feel the heat of skin on skin. I remember being stretched in every way in every corner of my bedroom, sometimes in cars, basements, or garages. The sex was good, but I remember when the sex wasn’t so good. I remember crying into pillows waiting for it to stop because my body had become such an object that my feelings didn’t matter. I remember being thrusted into while holding my breath because sex had become so routine that not doing it felt wrong. I remember my mind wandering and then coming back to him laying over me with sweat dripping from his forehead.
Two years celibate was not an easy accomplishment, yet looking back reminds me of how far I’ve come. In a world where sex was everywhere I turned, it became so easy to want it, almost to the point of desperation. I thought I needed it in order to survive as a functioning human. I thought I had to have it for my relationship to survive the week. It turns out that what satisfied my flesh temporarily was a detriment to my soul in the long run.
What I thought was the foundation of my relationships, the root, was actually meant to be fruit, a product of good conversation, meaningful interactions, and spiritual exchanges.
I am going to be celibate until I can commit myself to a partner that elevates me on a spiritual level. Only then will sex be the magical exchange of sparks and soul ties that give life rather than take it away. Here’s to two years of celibacy. Two years of waiting. Two years of growth.
Two years of intentional healing.
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