the body forgets

I wish I could believe I've ever had sex

It’s kind of taboo, but when I watch a romantic sex scene on a show, I always cry. Because I think, I want that for myself so bad. That’s never happened to me. Er, what?

That’s LITERALLY not true. That did happen. There is evidence. I in fact even remember it in my mind’s eye. It was even a pleasing experience. Yet why am I somehow unable to get my limbic system to act as if it were true?

The yearning for something I literally have had just completely throbs out of my chest, and a sob convulses in my throat in ways that confuse me. My body is mourning, weeping for me, and I’m confused because I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex before a lot. I can recite from memory play by plays of the encounters I’ve had. I remember everyone’s names, stories, birthdays. I don’t have any intrusive memories that are unpleasant. I look back at these people with fondness. So why does this feel so poignant as if I haven’t?

I’ve been asking my friends, some of whom joke maybe I’ve just gone so long without sex recently that I don’t remember what it’s like or have had that and perhaps it’s some symptom of my sexual frustration. Which is not true, because I didn’t touch a man for the entirety of my first year in LA and it’s hardly been that long. Others wonder if I have sexual trauma. The irony is I’ve had probably less bad sex than the average woman. So why, then, does something inside of me not want to feel some truth about the fact that the sex happened? Like sexual object permanence on a bodily level?

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I’m familiar with the fact that sometimes the body keeps the score when the mind doesn’t – you can’t remember events that your body reacts to reflexively, things you can’t suppress all the way because your body is trying to protect you.

But what about the fact that I can’t remember my sexual experiences firsthand, as if they happened to other people and I wasn’t there, as if my partner doesn’t even remember he was ever with me? How come my mind can see it happened but my body acts as if it didn’t.

Also, without revealing much detail, I was definitely present and enjoying the encounters. I’ve had rave reviews. Yet why, for some reason, does it not register to me at all that I was the one there? That my partner looked at my face and saw me, not some other girl?

It’s literally like if someone said something about “Asians,” and I kept forgetting they meant Asians. If someone said, “New York residents,” and I didn’t notice I have a lease in NYC. “Mizzou alums,” and I had somatically rejected that I’d ever been in the Midwest. If something doesn’t register to you that it happened to you even if you know it did, how does this work?

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My only conclusion is I just haven’t had enough romantic sex in my seven years of being sexually active to ever feel I had power to make the other person care about me. I haven’t had enough sex where it was powerful, mighty, and safe — where I wasn’t holding myself back with the cheery thought, you’re going to be gone anyway soon. Most of the sex I’ve had was a one night stand. Most of the sex I’ve had wasn’t with anyone I was in love with. And when I was in love, the two times ever, I was scared to truly feel that the other person cared about me on a deeper level, even when I saw signs, unless verbally spoken with his mouth and explained. I’d quickly resort to giving to him so I wouldn’t have to look too deeply into his face and see that maybe, for once, he felt something back. Because what if that’s not true, and I’m misreading?

Maybe I don’t have sex with truly the intention of being witnessed, with being seen, and letting that be true. Maybe this is just the mystique of sex I refuse to look closely at — maybe I’m intentionally blinding myself.

Maybe this is why the idea of sex right now is scary, and the most beautiful thing that could happen to me is if I knew you wanted to lean down and kiss me on my face, even if I can’t give you anything beyond that.

Maybe I’m just better at forgetting with my body than I ever could with my mind.