I can go a long time without sex. My longest self-imposed drought lasted three years. Sure, my vagina was depressed. But I needed the break. I needed to figure out what I wanted in life and love without distraction. I had to heal from my abandonment issues. I also needed to understand my thoughts on sex and intimacy.
During those three arduous years, I also discovered the qualities that I want in a partner. And I fiddled with my vagina…a lot. Albeit all the self-discovery, not getting some was hard. My vagina suffered. I could hear her crying out for penis in her sleep. Especially since I was abstinent more than once. Before Paco, my last relationship, I withheld from sex for a year and half. You can imagine her fear when Paco and I broke up.
Am I going to go through this again? Will I only see your fingers in my vicinity? Whatever will become of me?!!!!!
Luckily for my vagina, Brad came along two months after my breakup. He was a sexy, half Italian, half-something-super-Caucasian bartender who was all about me…and getting in my panties. But I wasn’t ready to give in. Despite my vagina’s pleas, I wasn’t going to give her up. Brad had to prove he was worthy.
We set up a date during our first chat. He said he would confirm the next day. I was excited. Our phone conversation flowed and he was flirty. I felt butterflies. The following day came and went but I didn’t hear from Brad. No call or text. No confirmation of our date as promised. My brain went on overdrive.
He said he’d call and didn’t. I want a man who does what he says. This proves he isn’t dependable.
My vagina rebutted.
This is just for fun! You’re not going to marry him! Just dooooo it!
I was at a crossroads. If and when Brad called, I wasn’t sure whether I should give him an opportunity, or even pick up the phone. In hindsight, I was being a hard ass. I was still hurt from Paco and my guard was up. And Brad did call. With lips pursed, I ripped him a new asshole. He wasn’t sure why I was so angry. I explained. He apologized. Our date was set for that night as planned. And my vagina filled with glee.
But Brad was late. An hour late. I was over it. So much so that when he picked me up, I criticized his wardrobe. I was a bitch on wheels who hadn’t had some in months. Brad tried to make up for his mistakes that night. He opened my door, pulled out my chair, bought me dinner, complimented my beauty and humor, and liquored me up. By nights end he had won me over with his charm, confidence, and pretty eyes. I softened. He noticed. He leaned in and kissed me softly yet passionately while we sat in the middle of a bar.
My vagina rejoiced.
I knew I was in trouble. As we walked a mile and a half to my apartment and he held my hand, I knew I was done for. When he assertively pushed me against a brick wall of a building during our walk and kissed me, I couldn’t resist. We kissed again and again. We stopped every few blocks and pressed our bodies together. He walked me up to my apartment and groped my ass and rubbed my vagina. Holy shit, she wanted it bad!
“Let me come inside,” he asked.
“No…I don’t do this…I don’t know you,” I moaned. More kissing. More touching.
More, more, more! My vagina screamed.
“I want to lick you up and down,” Brad whispered.
“Ok…you have to go home…I can’t…(kiss)…do…(kiss)…this!”
I finally pulled away. It took every ounce of willpower to send him home. And though my vagina gave me the silent treatment for weeks, I knew it was best to take it slow. Because for me, sex and intimacy go hand and hand. I didn’t want to detach and disconnect to enjoy one night only. And I wasn’t convinced that Brad was nothing but a break from my vaginal drought.