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Abstract

ed an international trip together. With all the money we had put out, we decided to go on the trip together, as friends, and made sure all our hotel rooms had two single beds.Looking back, I realize how foolish that decision was. I had forgotten the intimacies and anxieties of travel. Our first day out was exhausting and scary and amazing. We returned to our hotel room just before midnight, exhilarated and sweaty. I looked at him from across the room, and suddenly, we collided, kissing, tearing at each other’s clothing. We couldn’t even speak, we were so desperate to have one another.When we returned to the states, we moved in together. Surely, we thought, the sex could keep us together through the rough times. It already had.Living together was a whole new high. We could do anything we wanted, anytime, anywhere.He’d come home from work and find me in the kitchen, washing dishes. He’d stand behind me, pressing his hips against my bottom so I could feel how hard he was. He’d kiss my neck and scoop my breasts into his hands and wait for me to laugh and give in, turn to him and return his advances, right there in the middle of the afternoon.If he beat me home, he’d grab me as I walked by the recliner in which he loved to sit, pulling me onto his lap. He’d unbutton my shirt slowly, pull my breasts out from the cups of my bra, kiss them, stroke them, suck them. We’d sit like that for half an hour until I couldn’t take it anymore and begged for him to carry me into the bedroom — or throw me down right there on the floor.There were no rules, anymore, no roommates to avoid, no one to hear us if we were too loud, no one to see us if we got too crazy in the laundry room or kitchen.But still, as the months went on, he couldn’t stop his eye from wandering. He was so interested in experimenting with other women, in being young and free, as he liked to say.Eventually, I knew we weren’t going to make it. It hurt to be with someone who couldn’t make up his mind about loving me. It broke my heart every time he said it might have been a mistake for us to move in togeth

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er.But leaving seemed impossible. As silly as it might sound, I didn’t want to lose the sex — the connection I felt when we were in bed, the way he touched me, the wonderfully filthy text messages he would send me when I was at work, the incredible orgasms.I know myself. I’m slow to move on. I take my time. I knew he would be sleeping with someone else in less than a month and I might take years to find a new lover.So I stayed.We kept fighting. And having amazing sex.One night, after a week of barely speaking to one another, we tried to mend our argument by lying naked together, watching a movie. At some point, we began stroking each other — but not kissing, we were still too angry to share that intimacy — and in the heat of the moment, he rolled onto me and suddenly — so suddenly — he was inside me, with none of the usual assistance (a guiding hand, arching hips). The shock and pleasure of the connection was so intense that we both yelped and then he kissed me, hard, and we both came just a few minutes later.I was convinced that the sex couldn’t be that good if we weren’t meant to be together.I was naïve, though. Sex has nothing to do with general compatibility. It’s about bodies. Chemicals. Communication. Need. Pleasure.A person can put up with a lot in exchange for good sex.I was right about us moving on. He found someone else while we were still sleeping together and just like that, the sex was over. For good.Looking back, I wish I had exercised just a little more self-care. For the most part, I’m okay that I chose sexual gratification over peace of mind on more occasions that I care to admit, but I wish I had seen as much value in taking care of my emotions as I saw in taking care of my body.It’s a lot easier, I’ve discovered, to find a good sexual match than a good emotional match. Which means it can’t hurt to keep moving on until you find a partner that gives you both.Now I know.© <a href="undefined">Yael Wolfe</a> 2019</article></body>

The Perils of Good Sex in a Bad Relationship

The sex was so good, it felt impossible to leave. So I stayed.

Nearly ten years ago, I met a man I thought I would marry. He was kind, gentle, and he couldn’t keep his hands off me.

We talked about sex endlessly in the beginning of the relationship. We’d both been deeply hurt in our previous relationships and we wanted to take the physical aspect of our relationship slowly. So instead of jumping into sex, we shared our fantasies, in great detail, when talking on the phone, or through text messages.

It was a thrilling experience. I loved being able to tell him everything I wanted him to do to me and everything I wanted to do to him. Something about it made me feel safe and considerably eased my anxiety about taking that step with him.

I remember that first night together so well. I had bought a sky blue negligee for the occasion — one I wore for about 22 seconds before he ripped it off. We were both so nervous, despite all our previous conversations about what we wanted to do together, but there was also an ease to it, an understanding we had already built through our phone calls and texts.

We had about a month of amazing sex together before the other parts of our relationship began to falter.

He suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to have a committed relationship, and I wasn’t interested in anything non-monogamous.

We broke up, but a few months later, we ended up in bed again. It was so hard to walk away from the sex.

We reconciled soon after, but almost the exact same thing happened: We had amazing sex for a month or two, and then I found out he had gone out on a date with another woman behind my back. We tried to talk it through — nothing had happened, not even a kiss. But he’d lied and he never apologized for it.

Eventually, we parted ways again, though not before we had booked an international trip together. With all the money we had put out, we decided to go on the trip together, as friends, and made sure all our hotel rooms had two single beds.

Looking back, I realize how foolish that decision was. I had forgotten the intimacies and anxieties of travel. Our first day out was exhausting and scary and amazing. We returned to our hotel room just before midnight, exhilarated and sweaty. I looked at him from across the room, and suddenly, we collided, kissing, tearing at each other’s clothing. We couldn’t even speak, we were so desperate to have one another.

When we returned to the states, we moved in together. Surely, we thought, the sex could keep us together through the rough times. It already had.

Living together was a whole new high. We could do anything we wanted, anytime, anywhere.

He’d come home from work and find me in the kitchen, washing dishes. He’d stand behind me, pressing his hips against my bottom so I could feel how hard he was. He’d kiss my neck and scoop my breasts into his hands and wait for me to laugh and give in, turn to him and return his advances, right there in the middle of the afternoon.

If he beat me home, he’d grab me as I walked by the recliner in which he loved to sit, pulling me onto his lap. He’d unbutton my shirt slowly, pull my breasts out from the cups of my bra, kiss them, stroke them, suck them. We’d sit like that for half an hour until I couldn’t take it anymore and begged for him to carry me into the bedroom — or throw me down right there on the floor.

There were no rules, anymore, no roommates to avoid, no one to hear us if we were too loud, no one to see us if we got too crazy in the laundry room or kitchen.

But still, as the months went on, he couldn’t stop his eye from wandering. He was so interested in experimenting with other women, in being young and free, as he liked to say.

Eventually, I knew we weren’t going to make it. It hurt to be with someone who couldn’t make up his mind about loving me. It broke my heart every time he said it might have been a mistake for us to move in together.

But leaving seemed impossible. As silly as it might sound, I didn’t want to lose the sex — the connection I felt when we were in bed, the way he touched me, the wonderfully filthy text messages he would send me when I was at work, the incredible orgasms.

I know myself. I’m slow to move on. I take my time. I knew he would be sleeping with someone else in less than a month and I might take years to find a new lover.

So I stayed.

We kept fighting. And having amazing sex.

One night, after a week of barely speaking to one another, we tried to mend our argument by lying naked together, watching a movie. At some point, we began stroking each other — but not kissing, we were still too angry to share that intimacy — and in the heat of the moment, he rolled onto me and suddenly — so suddenly — he was inside me, with none of the usual assistance (a guiding hand, arching hips). The shock and pleasure of the connection was so intense that we both yelped and then he kissed me, hard, and we both came just a few minutes later.

I was convinced that the sex couldn’t be that good if we weren’t meant to be together.

I was naïve, though. Sex has nothing to do with general compatibility. It’s about bodies. Chemicals. Communication. Need. Pleasure.

A person can put up with a lot in exchange for good sex.

I was right about us moving on. He found someone else while we were still sleeping together and just like that, the sex was over. For good.

Looking back, I wish I had exercised just a little more self-care. For the most part, I’m okay that I chose sexual gratification over peace of mind on more occasions that I care to admit, but I wish I had seen as much value in taking care of my emotions as I saw in taking care of my body.

It’s a lot easier, I’ve discovered, to find a good sexual match than a good emotional match. Which means it can’t hurt to keep moving on until you find a partner that gives you both.

Now I know.