In the last couple of weeks I’ve had more Skype-, phone- and Facetime-sex than I’ve had of “the real thing.” In this virtual world, where I can procure anything online from sandals to strychnine, why shouldn’t I be able to get off? And yet… sex isn’t exactly like shoes or any other commodity. I’m not a good porn customer- I only ever watch the free stuff, and I am more likely to read online erotica than peruse “chaturbate” or the latest incarnation of webcam nonsense. The guys I’ve been getting off with are all people I know at least somewhat, and have some connection to. I’m looking for connection as well as orgasms, but I have to wonder how much intimacy I’m willing to risk when the only skin I’m touching is my own. If this is the New Sex, what was wrong with the Old Sex?
Sometimes I have to stop and explain to my kids that mommy grew up without the Internet. That when I had an interesting thought my initial impulse was not to Tweet/Instagram/Pin it. I would either write it down, or keep it to myself. Part of me wonders if by the time my kids are having sex (despite my sluttiness I’m still enough of a mom to be horrified by that) there will be any live sex at all? Will I be reminiscing about the times when Ye Olde Penis and Ye Olde Vagina had a Tupperware party, and fluids may or may not have been exchanged? The truth is that even when these do not pass a latex barrier, there is still sweat and saliva and pheromones and other unstable liquids, solids and/or gasses that make the experience not just “real” but real. They might be what make it addictive.
Though at this time of my life, I know what I want out of sex (which would be um…sex) I recently realized I’m not sure what I’m actually looking for.
Though I have superhuman orgasmic powers (ladies, call me, I will bring diagrams) I also have a huge heart with a lot of love to give. While I always expected to get harder of heart as I got older, I find myself at the tender age of 40 to be more sentimental, sensitive and passionate than ever before. Mere Memes can move me from tears of sadness to joy and back again. I have huge empathy for people who suffer, let alone those who are mistreated. So I find myself preferring to fuck someone with any combination of my voice, face or my body, than actually have to deal with the sights, sounds and smells of a live human being. It’s not that I don’t want to cuddle, it’s that if I do, I might cry for about an hour.
The amount of detachment it takes for me to “have sex like a guy” is not innate. I have cultivated it as a means to get off sexually without having to pay an emotional price. Though I have never had sexual hang-ups, I have recently become so ridiculously good at talking dirty that I may start to charge. I love the sound of a man getting audibly or visually turned on by something I have said or done, why shouldn’t I get paid for it? Yet at the same time there is a niggling thought that this has become just another way to avoid intimacy. If I know I turn you on, I don’t have to focus on whether or not you love me.
Fact is I’m not yet legally divorced, and am just starting to sort through a lifetime of looking outside myself for approval, love and happiness. I don’t want to care about whether you’re into me, or not that into me, or just too into yourself, because I’m cultivating the mindset that I’m into me. I cannot fathom where these men I’m involved with go when we are not together—I know I tend to attract highly busy, massively sexual people who are not ready to “settle down” (whatever that means) but when it comes to the times between Skype chats and Facetime IM’s and sexting, I’m like a child on the other end of a game of peek-a-boo. When you log off, in my mind you disappear entirely, and I never know if or when you are coming back. Objectively I know you’re working, or socializing, or banging blondes, but subjectively I cannot fathom why you wouldn’t want more of me than you do. What I know is that now, even with all of the copious masturbation with and without company, I can’t get enough of me, and that is what counts.