For years, I saw sex as a competitive sport. Then I realised how empty I felt
Until recently, I used sexual encounters the same way others might a glass of wine after a long day, or some chocolate after a meal – before you know it, one glass can quickly turn into two or three, or a chocolate bar a day.
Having been single for almost five years, I found myself increasingly viewing sex as a competitive sport. It became a means to an end – an orgasm, a stress relief, a cure for boredom or loneliness. One time, I joked with my friends that I “masturbated with his body”, referring to my latest conquest.
I had been keenly aware of my casual approach towards sex for a while, but I didn’t see it as a problem – I was never addicted to sex and had long been a proud member of the antislut-shaming community. I lived by the mantra: “Singles deserve intimacy, too.”
In hindsight, it’s clear that I was confusing sex with intimacy. I thought: “Just because I am not in a relationship, doesn’t mean I don’t get to have all the sex my heart desires.” But what started as an empowered “I am different, I wear my nymphomania as a badge of honour” journey soon snowballed into saying “yes” when I should have really said “no”.
Last summer, I slept with a man with whom I had a rare, electric chemistry. But at 7am, after about four hours of sleep, he woke me rudely and asked me to leave – he told me he “couldn’t sleep” while I was there. I gathered my stuff and left, after asking him to book me an Uber. Five minutes into the ride, the driver informed me it had been cancelled. When I called the man to ask what had happened, he said I “had been cold to him” upon my departure. My jaw fell to the floor as I found myself stranded somewhere in Upper Manhattan.
Last autumn, I met a man via a dating app and slept with him on the first date. After we were done – it was already 3am – he declared that he’d have to go home now. Taken aback, I inquired why he wouldn’t just stay over and leave in the morning. His response: “Sleeping next to a woman is too intimate. I’d risk her falling in love with me.”
I can think of at least 10 more similar situations where I felt belittled, sidelined, slut-shamed or all of the above. But what haunts me the most is that I know I have done the same to some of my sexual partners in the past. My numbness led me to believe that this was normal behaviour in the jungle that is otherwise known as casual sex among singles.
My unhealthy relationship with sex came to an unceremonious end with the help of social media and a good cry. In November, inspired by the social media trend “Dating Wrapped”, where singles post slideshow presentations summing up their year of dating, I counted the number of people I had bedded in the last year – 20. I was shocked by the relatively high number, considering almost none of them had made me feel fulfilled, excited or empowered.
Many of those encounters had been so forgettable that I had trouble recal
ling how I felt during or after, or found myself zoning out and thinking of something else while doing the deed. I had sometimes said “yes” to sleeping with someone simply because they asked, even if I wasn’t attracted to them.
Looking back, there was no one big lightbulb moment that led me to quitting casual encounters. (That might not have worked anyway; going cold turkey after years of bingeing may lead to relapses.) But sitting at the Thanksgiving dinner table surrounded by my happily married parents and my sister, her fiance and toddler, I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. The juxtaposition between my life and theirs suddenly dawned on me: “I can’t remember the last time someone I liked held my hand or hugged me.”
I knew I needed to stop having sex with anybody other than myself – a realisation born out of pure exhaustion. I now have one rule for my current existence: I won’t sleep with anyone for whom I don’t have romantic feelings. It’s been almost four months since I had a sexual encounter (what I used to call a “dry spell”), and I am feeling cleansed. The “sugar” and “toxins” are leaving my body – or rather, my mind – and I am clear and focused. It’s a whole new world for me, and I feel excited, dedicating the time I used to spend recruiting my next lead, and later crying to my therapist, on my career instead.
Of course, there are withdrawal symptoms. They usually kick in when I encounter a sex scene in a TV show or movie, or when I witness a friend going home with someone after a night out. But I am starting to realise that sex is not a numbers game and that intimacy and sex can be entirely different things.
While my body is closed for business, my heart is open for romance.
Cornelia Holzbauer is a health and wellness journalist based in New York City
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