I watched some porn the other week and the only thing I felt was a certain melancholic nostalgia. “Never again will I have sex with anyone that young and carefree,” I thought, as I watched a spunky tattooist fist a baby-faced butch on some kind of medical reclining chair. “I hope that’s strong enough to support them both,” I worried, as I ate another chocolate biscuit. The reason people supposedly like porn is because they like to superimpose themselves into these scenes. Problem is, I just can’t see myself in that sort of scenario anymore. What would I be doing in a tattoo parlour with a toddler anyway?! They’d be pulling all the needles off the shelf and trying to drink the rubbing alcohol. And even if I managed to get the tattooist out of her parlour and into my lounge room, the baby would be so excited to have a visitor that they’d refuse to go to bed, and then they’d probably wake up ten minutes into the fisting scene and I’d have to go and resettle them, twice, by which point the lube would have dried up.
The other reason it’s just not going to happen is that I have ZERO sex drive. Still. It’s been almost a year and a half now. This is by far the longest I have ever gone without an orgasm. I didn’t have a vaginal birth, but sex is still the last thing I feel like. This is one of the moments when I am SO glad I’m single. Any partner of mine would have left me for a good vibrator long ago. Or else I’d have stabbed them to death for suggesting that we partake in such a vulgar act. But even stranger than this lack of sex drive is a lack of caring. It’s incredibly liberating to not feel horny. There’s nothing else clouding my head or leaving me feeling lacking. There’s no longing for something I don’t have, no time wasted on crushes, no agonising, drawn-out heartache when things go bad. My emotional landscape is stable, and it’s making me very very happy. And content. I have never ever felt content before. For the first time in my life I am the master of my own emotions (other than when my child decides to hold the reins and deprive me of a good night’s sleep).
Along with this new appreciation for celibacy has come a weird revulsion for sex. It just seems so base these days. I’m like one of the vampires in True Blood, watching humans eat food in disgust. How primitive. Common. Below me. I feel nothing in my knickers when a hot butch walks past me on the street. I even briefly wondered if I’d somehow turned straight! Sex scenes bore me. Yuk. As if you’d want to touch someone else’s body if you didn’t have to. As IF.
Maybe it’s because I’m all touched out from my baby. We co-sleep, and they generally have my boob in their mouth for the majority of the night. In the day they are constantly touching me, wanting to be held, clinging to my leg. I also haven’t got my period yet, so maybe it’s hormonal, and at the first sight of blood it’ll come back with a vampiric vengeance. Or maybe I’ve just transcended and am now above the fleshy and primitive desires of the body. If only I believed in a god…