I’m divorced, dating again – but choosing to be celibate
Antonella Gambotto-burke explains why she hasn’t had sex for six years and how men react to her vow of abstinence
The Church of England’s recent announcement that unmarried couples should remain unblessed by priests and downgrade to “committed, sexually abstinent friendships” struck me as a well-meaning, if ill-advised, attempt to restore sacredness to our erotic lives. Despite my antipathy to the Church’s antediluvian – and often socially toxic – views, I do get where it is coming from. Sex has, for the most part, become so devoid of meaning as to be on a par with a spin class.
Because of this, I’ve been celibate for almost six years – since separating from my ex-husband, in fact. Not because I want him back, but for two reasons: first, because I’ve spent much of the past few years dealing with him in court (read: stress that makes your hair fall out), and secondly, because I figure that if sex got me into that uniquely modern level of hell, no sex will ensure
I never go there again.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve been dating various men for two years. I’ve had a weird, obsessive, nonsexual online thing for a year or so with a very entertaining man I will never meet. I’ve been on dates with sociopaths, neurotics, liars and perfectly nice men who have become good friends. I’ve been taken to the theatre and cinema, and discussed banking, yachting and PG Wodehouse over excellent brunches, lunches and dinners. But despite the kindness and intelligence of some of these men, none caused me to swoon. Chased, I remained chaste.
I only kissed three of the men I’ve dated. All of them were aware of my voluntary celibacy. We would discuss my choice, sometimes in great detail, and, for the most part, they were surprised and intrigued and respectful. Only one looked crestfallen, clearly having hoped that dinner would lead to a leg-over or, at the very least, an element of undress. I have never used the fact that I live alone with my 14-year-old daughter as an excuse, nor did I give out my address. I would meet them at an agreed location, usually a restaurant. No personal spaces involved, ever. I grew to love the slowness of these explorations. Current sexual expectations of both men and women are so destructive, shoving strangers prematurely into intimacy with often disastrous – or boring – results.
And then I lost my head. This man, a large and malodorous character whose unflagging enthusiasm for himself almost surpassed mine, was the antithesis of my usual droll, conservative type. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen so hard, so fast for anyone; the backs of his knees alone filled me with a desire so intense that it almost upended my resolute self-protection.
After seeing a harrowing performance of Equus on our first date, we fell upon each other like starving bears, kissing madly under the lights outside the Trafalgar Studios theatre. We closed a restaurant, talking and spoon-feeding each other
Strangers enter too soon into intimacy, with often disastrous – or boring – results
crème brûlée, and after that, he took me on a rickshaw ride around Soho.
Later in the car, I burst into tears. “Oh, my God,” I said, “I think I’m going to fall in love with you.”
We sparked each other creatively, talked for hours every day, and really made each other laugh. Other than half-baked hippie homilies, which he would spout on a regular basis, he really was exceptionally intelligent. I was delirious; infatuated. A small voice at the back of my mind warned me that his new age tendencies and marijuana habit might indicate a fundamental lifestyle incompatibility; ignoring it, I smiled when introduced to his friends and burbled like an idiot when I spoke about him to mine.
This man had slept, I think, with seven million or so women – at times in groups, undoubtedly to save time. He told me that sex was about touching souls. So, yes, we shared a bed, but having witnessed the distinctly unfunny severity of his addiction to spliffs, I told him that I would not make love unless he consulted a therapist about his self-destructive compulsions.
In the end, he was simply too frightened to confront whatever was fuelling his addiction. His choice made mine clear: there was no future. Looking back, it strikes me that I might have found a kind of soulmate, but, for me, the drugs and brainless 1967 platitudes (“love must be free of fear”) made sexual commitment impossible.
In the 21st century, sex is understood as a form of entertainment or stress relief. The vogue is for sexually uncommitted dating, as if it were simply too, too boring to focus on a single person at a time. But I am fiendishly territorial. Hook-ups, one-night stands and friends with benefits are, to me, insufferably pedestrian. Why deprive yourself of the narcotic high of intimacy?
But, thanks to the widespread use of porn now, girls and women seem to see their bodies as interchangeable and unspecial, feeling undeserving of exclusivity and the emotional deepening it entails. I’ve spoken to women who admit that they have performed sexual acts that later fill them with disgust, confusion or numbness. They do these things because they are frightened, they say, of losing love. They feel that they have to compete with the pornographic performers over whom their partners masturbate.
My choice to wait until I experience a sense of connection on all levels with a man before I sleep with him inevitably surprises people, who ask if it’s related to the incel (involuntary celibacy) movement or religion. Neither, actually. But the general understanding is this: if a woman looks a certain way – that is to say, not with gills or two heads – she has no business not getting it on. At a Grosvenor House ball, I stunned Jennie Bond, the happily married television personality, by telling her that I hadn’t had sex for six years. “Well, you should!” she cried.
Chip Somers, a Harley Street psychotherapist, believes that
Celibacy can be wise. It gives people space to discover what they want from each other
celibacy can be wise. “It gives people breathing space to discover what they want from relationships and didn’t get. And there is always, always loss to be acknowledged. After high-conflict divorces, in particular, a period of celibacy can be a very good way of protecting yourself against an emotionally dangerous or sociopathic ex-spouse.”
The man I adored once noted that neither of us actually needed a partner. It was an astute comment, and important for women in particular to consider: it is in the desperation of need that we lose ourselves. I lost all sense of romantic need after my divorce. My emotional life is rich – I dote upon my child, and my friendships with men are unusually close. I have emotional and sexual choices. My work life is so demanding that I am never bored. Self-care, now my priority, includes the protection of my heart. I don’t want to walk into a situation I can clearly see will lead to devastation, nor do I wish to commit to a man I know will ultimately bore, depress or annoy me. I’m looking for a man who can meet me on every level.
While I’ve instructed friends to lock me in a cupboard if I ever again speak of marrying, the only kind of sex that now interests me is sacred. The House of Bishops would not approve of my particular interpretation of sanctity, or the fact that I intend to revel in it outside the legal confines of wedlock, but I will forever love them for reintroducing the critical alignment of the erotic and the emotional into the public domain. It is a conversation more of us should be having.