The other night I engaged in a steamy, lust-filled, sexually-charged conversation with a close friend…and lover from my recent past.

We both felt urges to re-enact our yummy exchange in person the following week after he flew home from work.

In the heat of it all my libido was driving 180 miles per hour on the freeway high on the idea of some yummy sex yelling “oh baby!” with her hair blowing in the wind.

Completely fueled by desire, my libido was already thinking of what color of delicates she should wear and was left daydreaming about swilling a heaping glass of amarone while we made small talk before we tore each other’s clothes off.

Or would we skip small talk? Would I just show up in a denim shirt and scantily clad black lace delicates?

According to Sigmund Freud, desire comes from the part of our personalities called the id, located in the expanses of our mind.

Id is the unorganized part of the personality structure that contains a human’s basic, and instinctual drives. The id is a pleasure seeker who acts fast and without reason.

If we lived solely from this place we would all drive Lamborghinis, eat chocolate cake everyday for breakfast, have sex all the damn time—with anyone who made our heads turn full circle—get fired after we told our bosses they were an asshole and attempt to live in a Hilton in Bali for the rest of our lives.

It’s the “do” part of our minds, the “hit the red button” urge that fuels us to do stupid shit like pretend for a moment we can have no-strings-attached sex with someone who has left a lingering residue in our heart.

Oh, yeah.

Here comes “ego” or in other words my common sense and reasoning. The part of my mind that encourages me not to buy a Lamborghini as I haven’t recently won a jackpot, and who quietly tells me not to flip my boss the bird because he’s the reason I get a pay cheque at the end of the month.

My ego allows the fantasy and sexual gratification party going on my brain to thrive for a little while, as she understands my needs and desires…but after a short while she nudges me gently.

And then my “super ego” shows up in my process…aka my conscience kicks in and slams her foot down, hard. She looks over at my Id, Ego and heart across the table, rolls her eyes and says, “Really?” “You seriously think this is a good idea?” “You are completely useless—both of you are idiots.”

Then my Id and Ego hang their heads down, moping, listening to my super ego in silence resentfully while pushing their food around their plates.

“We are not buying a Lamborghini, you have low blood sugar and need to eat a substantial breakfast, we cannot afford to live in a Hilton and you are not putting delicates on for an hour long adventure in the sac that will give you an emotional hangover!”

The super ego is the party pooper for my libido. She gives my libido blue ovaries and and kicks her into the back seat when she tries to ride shotgun.

The man I was engaging with sexually had recently told me he was in no place for a relationship and I had spent the last month licking the wounds in my hearts from a distance.

Was this my final attempt at connection? Reaching out in a last desperate resort?

Or was this harmless? Isn’t engaging without any intent okay, sometimes? Every once in a while shouldn’t we just throw our analytics out the window and be in the moment—have wild, yummy sex just because we can?

Eventually my boobs will not look like this.

Sex is part of life—it’s healthy and normal and we need it. I am all for sex.

But what was my intent? Why did I stop myself?

I stopped because I had been there before. And after sex nothing shifted.

Sleeping with a man will not make him like you.

He may love the way your ass feels in his hand. The way you taste when your body’s dripping with sweat. The way you moan when he touches you.

He may love pulling your hair and the arch it makes in your back. But as soon as those endorphins wear off and his erection, his interest, attention and affection will slowly subside and sometimes disappear entirely.

Without love, sex is like a grade six dance where our souls hold each other two feet away so we may engage at a distance—without the vulnerability, without the scariness, without intertwining our souls in salty, sweaty, sweet togetherness. The space between us makes it safe and also lacking in all the joy making love can be.

So why do we sometimes take our clothes off in a last resort to connect with a man who is not reciprocating our feelings and affection?

Why do we reach out with our last asset available to ourselves as woman—our asses—in some lucid, far fetched hope that the moment the heat and steam dissipates, that he will want to stick around and invite us to meet his parents?

I’m guilty of this.

I’ve dated ’emotionphobes’ who are so deeply disconnected from their hearts they are numb. As a rescuer and a fixer upper, my desires can sometimes foolishly take wheel and have my heart sits back seat—compromised. It truly yearns for love and to be in a relationship—not to succumb to sex. Sex is a form of affection, but it is not its most authentic form.

Sex with no intent but to gain the affection of another is harmful. Shouldn’t we know we want to mix our sexual energy with that of another before we have sex? Not the other way around?

Having a one night stand and then scrambling to find common ground….things that make us compatible the morning after like…the color blue, or perhaps our love for ice cream probably worked for some married couple out there—but it also probably hurt a few hearts in the process.

Knowing our intent before we engage with another person is powerful and important. It’s never worth compromising your heart, or body if what you desire is not mutually shared with another person.

My heart and super ego run the show and know the difference. My heart listens to my intuition and isn’t afraid to speak up when I am mindlessly acting on impulse. She is the first person to speak up and say, “Hey! This is a bonehead idea. Put your vagina back in your pants and just keep swimming until you find someone who wants all of you.”

She knows she is not truly satisfied with having her panties ripped off and an hour long adventure in the sac. She’s too intelligent for that.

 

She wants it all: a yummyness and love that lasts for minutes, hours and days. Full of affection in all its incredible forms, not just one.

 

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Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: courtesy of the author