avatarMarilyn Flower

Summary

The author reflects on their past experiences with sex and relationships, realizing that their actions were driven by a pursuit of power rather than genuine affection or pleasure.

Abstract

The article "It Was Never About the Sex" delves into the author's personal journey with sex and power dynamics, particularly during the 1970s and in the San Francisco Salsa Club scene of the 1980s. Initially, the author believed they were trading sex for love, but later recognized that they were using sex as a medium of exchange for power or validation. The narrative explores the author's misconceptions about relationships, their role in the mating ritual, and the eventual realization that true empowerment comes from self-worth rather than sexual encounters. The author's experiences highlight the addictive nature of seeking validation through sexual attention and the emptiness of such pursuits, leading to a transformative moment when they took charge of their life and found fulfillment beyond the dance floor.

Opinions

  • The author perceives their younger self as having misinterpreted the dynamics of sexual encounters, mistaking them for a pathway to love.
  • There is a sense of disillusionment with the casual sex culture of the 1970s, where the author felt they had little power or control in their relationships.
  • The author suggests that holding back sexual intimacy could have provided them with more leverage in relationships.
  • The article conveys the author's belief that their value was not in their sexuality but in their ability to offer stability and connection, which was appealing to their partners.
  • The author acknowledges an addictive pattern in their pursuit of validation through sexual attention and dance contest wins, comparing it to substance abuse.
  • The author expresses a shift in power dynamics when they started to dictate the terms of their relationships, gaining a sense of control and empowerment.
  • The narrative concludes with the author's revelation that true fulfillment comes from within, not from external validation, leading to a more authentic and joyful life.

It Was Never About the Sex

It was always about the power or lack thereof

Photo by kermen tutkunova on Unsplash

How could I be a sex addict when I don’t even like sex all that much?

Perhaps because I learned early on to use it as a medium of exchange. I wish I could say that I at least figured out how to get handsomely paid — given how much recreational sex I ended up having back in the day.

Back in the day would be the early 1970’s for me, in and around colleges and college towns. The gold standard seemed to be drink and dance up a frenzy in the bar, hopefully to live music, until that ominous “Last call.”

Reminiscent of the kid’s game, Musical Chairs, this was the signal it was time to pair up for the night or be left alone in the dark. Maybe it was the one I was currently dancing with. Or the sly looker in the smoky corner with the blue eyes and the dimples. Please let it be him. He’s at least cute.

It might turn out he was too drunk to perform and would project that on to me somehow. It might turn out that the dude is married and the wife is on vacation and he couldn’t sit at home on a Saturday night all alone now could he? Or it might turn out that he was just looking for a one-night stand…

Trading sex for love

Meanwhile I misread the medium of exchange in this mating ritual over and over. I thought I was trading sex for love. I thought it was the beginning of something. Maybe not the romance of a lifetime, but at least worth a few getting-to-know-you- in-the-light-of-day hook ups or a hike in the Hocking Hills and brunch. Or maybe, a few more sexual adventures before he disappeared forever.

Was it just me? Was I that unattractive, unlikeable, that so not relationship material? Or was I simple fishing in the wrong pond? Perhaps I should have been looking to meet him while volunteering with disabled kids or protesting against the war.

Actually I met quite a few guys protesting the war. They turned out to be very interested in sex. With multiple partners. Not leaving them much band width for deeper relationships. There was no incentive to do otherwise. This was what we did.

Hot currency devalued

I didn’t figure out that sex was hot currency. And that the way to use the currency was to hold back — not spend it first and then hope for goodies in return. That’s not how it’s done.

Bar to bed hopping gave me no leverage and only rarely breakfast — and continental at that. I held the key to the sex, but they had all the power. They picked me up (with my full compliance) and they left just as fast as they came. Pun intended.

Meanwhile I had some deep and dear friendships with men. We took classes on Human Sexuality together. We made and sold arts and crafts at summer fair booths together. We marched for women’s rights. We went hiking, had brunch and got high together.

And after long, sweet, rich days, they went off with their boyfriends into the hot, sultry nights. They actually proved to be just as wham bam as their straight counterparts — just not with me.

Flash forward sixteen years during which time I moved from Ohio to New York City to the San Francisco Bay Area, got deeper involved in left wing politics, got a real union job and got married. Now in my late 30’s, breaking free of marriage, I faced the meet market again.

Same dance, new steps

This time it was the San Francisco Salsa Club scene. Not the big ones like Cesar’s Latin Palace or their East Bay counterparts. I ended up in a little outer mission dive called Club Elegante, which was anything but.

At first, my agenda was to learn to dance. Salsa, Cumbia, Rancheras, Rhumbas, and even the hip hop danced during the band’s breaks. Yes, there was live music. Bobby Lechuga y su Orchestra.

In short order I got hooked on winning the nightly dance contests. I didn’t need alcohol, but I drunk up the attention I got being one of the few white “chicks” on the dance floor. Judged by applause-o-meter, skill wasn’t necessary. It was more of a booty-shaking contest. And most of the “judges” were pretty intoxicated.

Given all this, I did my best to dance with as many guys as possible and make like I might be interested in you-know-what later on. This got me votes! The dancing around was my way of auditioning a partner that might make me look better than I actually was. “Dance 10, Looks 3” was perfect for my purposes.

Once an applause junkie, always an applause junkie?

Looking back, the sad thing — one of many — was that I did not speak enough Spanish to claim my prize when we won. I didn’t even realize they gave out actual prizes! Winning itself was my “hit.” (Now it’s claps on Medium.)

Given there was first, second and third place, I usually won. Maybe for my dancing, but more likely for being the cute Gringa Latina- wannabe who learned to say, “Estoy Nicoya” with a lisp and a wink.

I soon learned that I held more than the sex card. For many of these young men, recent immigrants, I held the possibility of a connection that could lead to a green card. Stability. I was older. I had a car and a steady income. I could spring for the dinners that often happened in the wee hours after the bar closed. I was also the designated driver and good for a ride home.

Soon I found myself involved in more than dancing. But this time I called the shots. If someone prettier or a better dancer came along, my current flame was dropped like a hot potato.

Sticking it real good

Oh was this a heady drug. It’s called power. I didn’t realize it when I was the dumpee. But oh, to be the dumper! To give someone the boot and take up with their best friend. Or a guy from the rival soccer team’s country. I stuck it to ’em good. Like the raunchy juke box song said, “Stick it, stick it real good.”

Was I getting even? Was this a revenge fantasy played full out? The joke was on me. The thrills were very short lived. But the pattern took over like the nasturtiums in my garden and consumed more and more of my life.

Typical of addictive patterns, it took more and more of the drug to get the same high. Two nights a week turned into five. Midnight turned into four am. Innocent kisses in the car turned into sexual sessions in just about every cheap motel on Lombard Street.

Motels you ask? Did I mention I was still married? Did I mention that when I finally rolled in at those wee hours, if he was horny, well…

As the Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous “Big Book” says, “Like a cattle prod jabbed into someone who is exhausted and dazed, an addictive hit jolted us into a temporary illusion that we were alive and really living. It was as though we had a voice in our heads which said, ‘if you get more, then everything will fall into place.’”

As they say in AA, one is too many and a thousand is not enough. Quantity can never cover for what’s missing in quality of life. The holes in my heart that the addiction tried to fill could never be filled by those love-in-all-the-wrong-places substances or behaviors.

The day I finally got that was the day I took real charge of my life. January 29, 1989. It’s been — holy cow — thirty years! Chock full of lessons, love and life. Yes, I still dance. Ballroom, tango and of late, Zumba! Make that Senior Gold Zumba where I am a self-contained fireball of dancing fool joy. And damn proud of it!

Marilyn Flower is a sacred fool who writes fiction, poetry, and blogs, inspired by the practice of SoulCollage®. Her books: Developing Characters: Fun Ways to Cast Your Fiction, Creative Blogging, Bucket Listers. Follow her Sacred Foolishness or SoulCollage® for Writers, and Stay in touch!

Sexuality
Addiction
Addiction Recovery
Dance
Self Improvement
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