Happy Anniversary Daddy

It was a year ago today that I last had Really Great Sex. I don't remember the event exactly, I don't think the incident itself was one of the most memorable of that period, it's just eventful because it was the last time. I didn't know at the time it would be the last. If I had, I may have made more of an effort to make it memorable, stretch it out and make it last. If nothing else, note each detail to help refresh my memory in my private moments later.

Apparently, Really Great Sex is like a lot of physically intense experiences. I remember that period of time was Really Great, but the nature of those sensations, the visceral memory eludes me now, a year later. Contractions in child birth were like that, pain from my back injury was like that, a host of other experiences, good and bad fade from physical memory and reside only in slippery terms like: good, bad, painful, cold, hot, right and wrong. When we felt those things, there was a strong intimate relationship between the description and the bodily response. Eventually tho, it fades into memory, a tricky unreliable beast at best with a lazy proclivity for making things seem better than they were.

It took a while to find out that was going to be the last of the RGS. The decision wasn't made by me, and once I asked I was offered an exchange: emotional closeness for physical closeness. I could have one or the other, not both. I am still not sure what was in my head when I chose the former over the latter. Maybe I wasn't even really given a choice, it's hard to say now.

The magical season of RGS happened at an interesting time in my life. January 19th of last year would have been the 2 year anniversary of my back surgery. It would have been second semester of my first year back in college. I'd spent the first semester walking my ass off, taking a belly dance class, and continued that level of physical activity by switching to ballroom dance, evening belly dance and more walking off of the ass second semester. In this time, I would have just discovered that I would be moving out of my disgusting, soul killing, too small apartment and into a house. A place with a yard, privacy and away from the invasive presence of a toxic relationship that ranged from iffy to radioactive in fairly regular intervals. I was buff, structurally sound in a way I had NEVER been in my adult life, and optimistic about my soon to be realized geographic solution (to the emotional landmine I lived across the street from) when no other solution had worked.

I really hadn't been looking for this kind of experience. If I'd known I would get a taste of it and have it yanked away, would I have made the same choices? Yes, I have to say I would. Even if I'd known it would be temporary, I still would have done it. I am still amazed and thrilled and awed by the things I found out could happen to my body, the ways I could feel, the things I could do and the acts I would revel in. The choice I would change was exchanging the physical for the intimate. I have friends. I have very close friends I share my secrets with, who support me and love me and provide me with a network of intimacy that work very nicely for my needs. They, however, can't make my body do that.

After this time, once I realized it was over, I went through a period of promiscuity. I discovered something about myself and I was determined to find it again, to continue the exploration and find out how far the rabbit hole went. What amazing failure awaited down that road. Like with poison ivy, sometimes it's better to ignore an itch than to scratch it improperly. The number of times I sent someone away then tried to find a way to stem the pressure of the boiling inside... well, fortunately, that's also an experience that fades into memory with only labels: sad, disappointing, infuriating, ego deflating.

Was all the sex terrible? No, not terrible. Some of it was ok. Some was fun and some even approached interesting. Was it worthwhile?? Recently, I've taken a poll amoung my friends: Is sex like pizza and ice cream? Even if it's not very good, is it still worth having?

I'm 32. My friends, the ones I respect and whose opinions I think are valuable are around my age and older. Around the time I turned 30, my body changed. Back surgery non-withstanding, there was a difference in my view of mortality. I could feel the effects of the wear and tear on my body. Things like my cholesterol levels, potential for diabetes and getting enough fiber in my diet suddenly become somewhat more relevant. This seems to be an experience shared by my peers. Something about 30 is passing through the gates from youth to something else. Adult, middle age. . . it's hard to say exactly, but the feeling is there for all of us. The clock may not be ticking, but suddenly, we're aware that there is a clock.

Is sex like ice cream and pizza? Mostly, the answer has been yes. All three things, even at their lowest quality, are typically tolerable. The question then becomes a little more complex and here's where it got interesting. We're getting grumpier, pickier, and more aware of consequences in our old age. Interestingly, pizza and ice cream have become emblematic of the things in life that are worth waiting to get the good stuff. I know what the good stuff is like, and frankly I'd rather not waste my time on an inferior product. Crappy ice cream doesn't have any less sugar, cholesterol, or lactose in it than the good stuff. Same with pizza for the most part. If consumed, you're still going to have the same consequences to your body.... fatter, unhealthier, and likely some sort of gastric upset.

Sex falls into the same category. It's not worth the mess: physically, emotionally or spiritually to tolerate bad sex. I had enough to know. It's been a year now since RGS, and many months since I made the attempt at all. I can get laid anytime. I know that. Having a presence in my bed simply isn't enough anymore. I may not remember exactly what the physical sensations felt like to have RGS, but I do remember how happy it made me, I remember my altered mental state because of it, and I remember that stretching feeling of potential inside me, that feeling of reaching for something huge and consuming in the universe. Faced with the options, I think I'll just sit it out until I can approach a situation with reletive certainty that the other person is really interested in putting forth the effort to make it happen.

There was something that happened in that time like no other. We both approached the experiences with a desire to please, an interest in the other. I remember a time when I was determined not to give it up, when I willed myself to believe that orgasm was more than physical stimulation, you had to be willing. He proved me wrong, with just his hands. I remember clamboring across the bed, the afternoon sunshine making the room aglow, hands, tongues and bodies squirming together with abandon. Abandon was the key to RGS, along with sheer joy in the act. I remember some of those moments, and I honor them today.

You don't know when your time is up. My grandfather had his prostate removed. They told him: you're never going to have sex again after this surgery, you won't be able to get an erection. At 84, he tried to be in good cheer, he said "my wife has been dead for 7 years, I'm not having sex anyway" but later, mom said he was unnerved. He thought his parts were going to shrivel up and go away because they were no longer going to be used. (he also had his bladder removed so he wouldn't even be peeing from it) I found myself wondering... does he remember the last time he had sex? Did he know it was going to be the last time it ever happened? Would he have done things differently if he did know? Then finally: Did he think about that last time, the night before his surgery and did he have one last go of it on his own, just to reassure himself that it did still work, even if his last chance for interactive sex died 7 years ago?

I anticipate my time isn't over. I imagine there will be more opportunities for RGS in my future, and I'm sure that the sea of lovers holds at least one more fish worth keeping, but today I honor the one that got away. He's the fish tale I tell when the subject of sex comes up. My eyes are bright and shining with the memory, the details are filled with glowing detail of exuberance and amazement and not a little bit of narcissism about how fucking amazing my body is and what incredible things I can experience through the physical realm. He gave me that gift, and it's one I can keep. I can pull it out in times like these, polish it on my shirt and hold it up to the light to see the facets sparkle and shine. I can remember how good it can get in the afternoon sunshine, giving everything you've got and getting everything he's got. I can feel the flashes of emotion flit through my head when the memory is especially strong... a scent, certain lighting, a mood all trigger a memory of my joy, my submission, my power, my orgasms given to me against my will and the ones given with me driving forward as unstoppable as nature. According to What the *bleep*, the brain doesn't know the difference between something it's experiencing, and the memory of that experience. The exact same parts of the brain are activated when it happens as well as when your memory is strongest about that experience. This means that I have that in my head, those experiences imprinted a physical memory of extacy of a physical experience, and that is accessible in a biochemically identical way with enough focus. (again, I wish I had more detailed writings about those times, and I certainly will in the future when it happens again) There are many women who don't have that memory to keep them going. Who knows, maybe they're the lucky ones, because they don't realize what they're missing or what they lost. But, I don't think so, I think it's better to know what is possible if you pick carefully and try hard enough.

So, Happy Anniversary Daddy, and wherever you are now, thank you. I learned a lot, and while I know the long term relationships between neurons that those experiences wired in my brain have long since broken apart from lack of upkeep, I have faith that the residual pattern is still there, a memory if nothing else, that I can perhaps upkeep on my own, a biochemical act of faith.