Here's your place to come talk about sex and love whenever you feel like it.
hus·sy noun, plural -sies.
1. a brazen or immoral woman.
2. a mischievous, impudent, or ill-behaved girl.
Yep. That’s me. I am a hussy. A Jezebel, a broad, a floozy, a minx, a slut, a strumpet, a tart, a tramp, a trollop, a vamp, a wench.
I love sex. As a means of self-expression. As a means of relaxation. As a means of exercise. As a means of relieving slight boredom.
I, like Emily, have no idea what my sex number is, but, unlike her, I’m certain it’s in the triple digits. Love and marriage and forevertyever? I’m totally down with it. For you. If it’s your thing.
It’s just not mine and, while I’ve been in love, and it’s wonderful, I don’t have to be committed to someone to knock boots with them. And, when there’s no one around, I’m down with a solo session, if you know what I mean.
I started glazing my own donut at the wee age of 11 and pretty much haven’t stopped since. If I’ve got five minutes alone, I’m shooing the animals out of my bedroom (Or the bathroom. The animals are everywhere!) and relieving some hysteria, Victorian era-style.
Label me “liberated” or a “loose woman” and I’m okay with either and will own it with every curly hair on my oft-seen vulva.
Lately, though, I haven’t been mattress dancing with anybody, not even myself, thanks to Prozac. You see, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Dermatillomania (aka Compulsive Skin Picking) a few years ago, and have been using meditation and mindfulness to keep my impulses under control.
About six months ago, though, due to a hundred kinds of stress, I lost my ability to handle the situation on my own. I was counting things like Rain Man and my routines and skin scratching were becoming noticeable and disruptive to my life. My doctor recommended antidepressants and, desperately, I agreed.
Now, things are calmer. I still count, but can leave the house after less repetitions. I still have routines, but, when they are interrupted, I don’t feel like killing myself. I still pick, but it’s less often and less destructive. One thing I don’t still do is get a ladyboner.
I watch porn, of which I’ve always been a big fan, and think “meh.” I see sexy people on the street and don’t imagine them naked. My boyfriend kisses me, and I can’t stop thinking about what’s for dinner (Actually, that hasn’t changed).
I told a lovely friend of my troubles and, a few days later, came home to a giant, mysterious box, sitting at my front door. I opened the box to find a treasure of which a pirate never dreamed. The friend, who works for a sex toy company, had sent an arsenal of help.
I giggled at some of the choices, I gave the come-hither to a few others. I closed the bedroom door and got down to business. It wasn’t easy, but I was determined.
Turns out the parts still work, though much more slowly than before. I got aroused, eventually, and even had an orgasm, in time. I laid there, surrounded by a rainbow of marital aides, exhausted, but relieved. I’m not broken. Not completely. But I’m also not myself.
I had a talk with my doctor, who said that sexual side effects are common with antidepressants. She recommended that I weigh the pros of being helped in almost every other way by the medication to the one con of zero libido and get back to her. Which is where I am, now.
I really, really like feeling better, and having a bit more control over my impulses, but I’m not a huge fan of the clitoral erectile dysfunction I’m experiencing. I feel like I’ve traded a big part of me for my mental health and don’t know if it’s worth it. I miss the sexy. I miss it, a lot.
What say you, xojaners? Have you experienced the same lack of sexual arousal as a side effect of a medication? Did it drive you bananas? How did you deal? Help!