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That's everything. Love, sex, knowledge, emotion, need, want, friendship, sadness, stress.
It's all hormones firing in our brain, telling us to slow or speed or cry or laugh.
And mine say the same thing they always do:I need him.
I'm not satisfied.
I want him more.
I'm more painfully aware of the state of my sex life.
That's why I use this scene so many times. Because my ex-boyfriend wasn't here.
He didn't want to tear my clothes off. He didn't even want me, really.
I know it's normal, medically speaking. Sure, on average, men have higher libidos than women, and men are more likely to experience spontaneous desire (they get horny for no reason at all), and women are more likely to experience responsive desire (they want sex only after someone else initiates). But people aren't averages.
And everyone responds to stress differently.
Of course, my boyfriend lost his sense of lust during the exhaustion of residency.
Of course, between his lack of exercise, poor diet, and phone addiction, he didn't crave the visceral experience of moving his body with mine.
I knew why he didn't initiate, why he rejected my advances, why he didn'treallyparticipate when we had sex—
But the knowledge did nothing to soothe my wounded ego or satisfy my raging hormones. I walked away from our relationship with a hugeLon my forehead.
Daphne Webb, so unsexy she can't even seduce her long-term boyfriend.
Again.
It wasn't the first time my relationship ended because of bad sex. Or the second. Or third. Or eighth.
Men who put school and work ahead of everything understand why I can't give them a hundred percent. They just, well, put school and work ahead of sex.
Everyone thinks I'm direct and in control, and I am, but only when it counts. Only when I really want to invest in my relationship.
I didn't.
So, instead of forcing a conversation, I went to my happy place.
I told myself, again and again, that I wasn't worth a hard conversation. I didn't deserve a good sex life.
Sure, in my head, I said the opposite.
But my actions spoke volumes.
We can't lie to ourselves. No matter how hard we try.
And now—
This time, with thisoneparticular dramatic life choice, I'm putting myself first, yes. But I'm putting Daphne Webb, future sex researcher, first. Not Daphne Webb, human being with sexual needs.
I open my eyes and let the sights and sounds of the room return to me. The bright light of afternoon. The hum of the fan. The warmth of the sun.
Where am I, on a scale of one to ten?
Physically, I feel good. Satisfied.
