In 2023, I thought a lot about whether I’ll ever have sex again

Published on 24 December 2023

It's been 4 years, 3 months and 11 days since I did some squat thrusts in the cucumber patch. Since I bumped uglies. You know? Engaged in a bit of bedroom rodeo. This, dear reader, is far too long.

Back then, I’d been enjoying a passionate connection with an amazing person. For both of us, the attraction was dialled up to a zillion so the sex was plentiful and it was mind-blowing. And yes, I swear it’s not just my current dry spell warping my memories of day-long dopamine bliss. 

But it was the wrong place and the wrong time so we ended it. After the last time, I remember chuckling and saying, “what if drawing a line under this means I never have sex again?” They laughed and said that was ridiculous and at the time, I thought it was ridiculous too.

But here I am: 42 years old contemplating the possibility that a smoking hot, sugary sweet portion of afternoon delight may never be served to me again. 

Initially, I wasn't bothered. I thought that over time, my feelings might shift, I’d get thirsty and I'd entertain the idea of some horizontal refreshment.

But that didn’t happen for ages. 

It’s only within the last year or so that I’ve considered getting back in the saddle, as they say. But it’s not been that easy and that probably comes down to how much effort I’m willing to put in.

The world changed post-Covid. I’m not sure people go out as much but maybe I’m just older and less up for going out-out now.

I've toyed with the idea of online hook-ups but the risk of a fair-to-middling tangle is high and I’m just not convinced it’s worth it. Photos – even the naughty ones – are useless at indicating if there’s a spark between the two of you. The apps are convenient but I wish they could do more of the drudgery so you can avoid the disappointment of an unexceptional encounter. I know, I know. How reductive. How anti-romantic. But chemistry is a science so perhaps we’re not too far away from the algorithm figuring this out. LLM stands for Love Language Model, right?

I find myself in a unique position because – whether they're single, in relationships, or married – none of my friends have gone nearly so long without intimacy.

In some solid attempts to disrupt my celibacy, they have sent me various solutions, from concerns about vaginal atrophy to Indian psychics promising to solve sexual ‘problems’. There have been suggestions of singles dinners, ‘dating doctors’, pear rings, and even animal dating trends, but as amusing as they may be, none of them seem worth the effort. I did try speed dating in the hope of having some fun but my initial conversations were uninspiring and I didn't even want a second drink with anyone, let alone an invitation to bed.

So the drought is my fault, I suppose. I want it, but I’m too lazy to put the effort in for average sex. The dearth has become a somewhat embarrassing point of pride now – though it's not a title I ever aspired to hold. But I just can’t be bothered to go through the motions for mediocre. It’s got to be a 7 at least but I know there’s no way to know until you know. You know?

Then, during the summer, me and a group of friends went on a month-long trip following an international sporting event. The perfect setting for my lazy girl’s grand slam really. Socialising, drinking, and basking in the sunshine. Relaxed holiday vibez combined with a healthy dose of sport-heightened testosterone – surely in this place at this time, minimal effort would be required and I’d finally manage to break the dry spell. 

There was a lot of drinking, laughter, singing, dancing and even some nudity. We met lots of great people and one in particular was handsome, funny, interesting and charming. There were compliments, flirtations, and a possible connection and the opportunity presented itself.

But as I considered breaking my fast, my thought was: but where would we go? The tiny studio apartment shared by the 4 of us? Their slightly larger apartment housing 12 friends? A hotel? Or should we brave the great outdoors?

My 22-year-old self would have returned to the apartment without a second thought. My 32-year-old self would have happily paid for a hotel room. But my 42-year-old self just couldn't muster the enthusiasm so in the end, I turned them down.

I touched down at Gatwick without a single touchdown.

Nope. Nothing.

Now, I’m not only pondering whether I’ll ever have sex again but how much I truly want it – especially if I'm willing to turn it down after 2,280,120 minutes of abstinence.