My year of celibacy
James Innes-smith
Iguess I’d simply had enough; enough of the cynical manipulation, the twenty-ways-to-pleasure-your-lover articles, the tacky ‘surveys’, the preposterously pervy novels, the instant, tainted gratification of whatever-takes-your-fancy porn. The coarse sexualisation of pretty much everything, from music videos to shampoo advertising, and yes, even children’s underwear, had left me with a permanent headache.
Sex had always been an effective selling tool of course, but now it was being used to make us feel anxious. Were we getting enough? Were we acrobatic enough? Were we ‘hot’ enough? Sleeping with someone was no longer simply a fumbled expression of mutual attraction; it now came with the added burden of expectation driven by airbrushed ideals, a new breed of hyper-erotic fiction and always-up-for-it porn-star gymnastics. How could we, with our paunchy inadequacies, possibly keep up?
No wonder so many of the women I interviewed for an article about divorce cited sexual frustration as the main reason for leaving their husbands. The likes of E L James had opened a Pandora’s box of sexual shenanigans few could live up to.
The pressure to look, perform and, yes, dominate like Christian Grey had left many men feeling inadequate. Just as desperate housewives were being encouraged to rise up and grab themselves a piece of the action, bewildered husbands were retreating to the less judgemental world of online porn.
We had all been sold a dirty little sex-lie, but instead of railing against the audacity of the deceit, we became infatuated by the idea of carnal perfection. We were now demanding to have our cynically imparted, hopelessly unrealistic fantasies made flesh and, if partners failed to comply, then we would seek our pleasures elsewhere.
So why did I decide to take the road less straddled and embark on a vow of celibacy at the age of 42? Having recently emerged from a rather fraught, longterm relationship, I suddenly found myself confronted by a world of bewildering sexual opportunities. After the initial novelty had worn off, I realised that recreational copulation no longer thrilled me the way it once had. In order to regain a sense of perspective, I needed some time out. So I gave myself a year, with the option to extend.
Avoiding the daily tidal wave of sexual imagery designed to set male minds racing proved a major challenge. If a billboard tried to seduce me into some pointless purchase with provocatively attired models, I would immediately avert my gaze. ‘Nice try,’ I’d murmur before moving on to the next trigger; a shop window, perhaps, or the side of a bus shelter. Learning to blank out these seductive, stress-inducing images felt like a positive step. Anxiety levels fell dramatically.
Over time, and with a great deal of effort and restraint, I was able to gradually wean myself off some of the more uncomfortable, distracting side effects of sexual desire. Now that I had made my decision to quit, I could focus on other things. I read more and started going to the gym.
Parties were no longer breeding grounds of frustrated possibility. Yes, I missed the intimacy of sex with someone I cared about, but I knew the trial was temporary and that, when I rejoined the land of the loving, I would feel purged and ready to begin again.
During my year off, I became fascinated by those brave souls who had chosen to take a lifetime’s vow; how did they cope and was it possible to miss something you had never had? On the Greek island of Lesbos, I visited a remote nunnery atop a lush hill overlooking the Aegean. The last remaining occupants were all now in their eighties and nineties.
Of the ten nuns still in situ, only the youngest, a tiny 82-year-old, had ever ventured beyond the confines of the bougainvillea-covered walls. Although she didn’t speak a word of English, her niece, who was visiting from Australia, assured me that her aunt had never lusted after temptations of the flesh. ‘She loves her routine: prayers five times a day, some quiet contemplation and looking after her beloved chickens.’
I watched as the nuns pottered about their sparse, delightfully tatty quarters, tending abundant vegetable patches and resting ancient limbs under a warm, late-afternoon sun. Unlike my own self-conscious attempts at serene engagement, this felt like the real deal; true mindfulness in action.
I envied them their moral certainties and unhurried, uncluttered lives, far from the crude, lust-driven secular world I inhabited. These stooped yet dignified characters radiated deep wisdom, quiet humility and lasting contentment. They wanted for nothing and yearned for even less.
If my year of celibacy taught me anything, it is that we should learn to temper our desires. Allow yourself to be drawn in by the relentless tide of sexualisation and you risk being worn down by a gnawing sense of inadequacy and disappointment.
Going cold turkey can offer some welcome perspective, reminding you that, beyond the easy thrill of the physical, lies a deeper, more profound truth, rarely discussed by our prurient media. Whatever our sexual proclivities, we need to set boundaries. Showing a bit of humility and restraint pays dividends in the long run – as the nuns of Lesbos can testify.