I feel the sexiest I’ve ever felt, so why do I not want to have sex?

“I don’t feel the yearning to connect with another body, because I think I’m only just really starting to love mine.”

Content warning: This article discusses non-consensual sex.

I had a lot of sex in my early twenties. It was kinda my thing. I’d spent my high school years afraid to be intimate with boys for multiple reasons – for one, there was my Catholic upbringing. Although my parents were never strict about going to church or abiding by any scripture, I did go to a Catholic primary school, which meant mass every Monday and religion lessons once a week.

I don’t have a bad relationship with Catholicism (even now), but the whole ‘no sex before marriage’ thing became pretty ingrained, as well as the idea that having sex with someone who wasn’t officially committed to you would make you less valuable.

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Then there were the conversations among the boys at school. I was privy to many conversations where boys would rehash their dalliances with our female peers in a less-than-thoughtful way. Truthfully, it felt like they never had anything nice to say. It was as though a girl letting him into her pants gave him permission to say whatever the hell he wanted. Like that she had “thunder thighs” or that her vagina “smelt weird”.

I didn’t agree, but I also didn’t know any better. I just knew I didn’t want to be one of the girls that was snickered about, so I kept my pants on. And finally, there was my first time having sex.

It was with one of my best friends’ boyfriends and it was non-consensual. Before I knew what was happening, we were in a bedroom with the door closed and he was on top of me. I felt weak and scared and confused by what was happening. I was 17. But the worst part was that no one believed me when I told them what happened. They believed his story, that I “came onto him”.

After that, I shied away from affection for a good two years. At the time, I couldn’t understand why I would physically cringe when someone I liked touched my face affectionately, or why my body would tense up whenever anyone leaned in for a hug. 

So, when I had connected sex for the first time, I was surprised, delighted and instantly hooked. I’d always been under the impression that men made the first move. I thought they were the ones in control and that our pleasure was dependent on theirs. But I quickly learnt that wasn’t how I wanted to live my life. 

Through sex in my early twenties, I found a sense of empowerment in being a woman I didn’t know existed. As I reflect on this now, it makes me sad. So much of our education growing up isn’t centred around the female pleasure experience. And it should be.

Being a woman is such a beautiful and powerful thing, especially as you’re beginning to understand your body. I felt like my body was changing and growing and morphing into something even more feminine as I was simultaneously experiencing all of these untapped sexual territories. I couldn’t believe how much I was capable of.

I felt excited each time I worked out a new sex position I liked, when an uncharted area of my body was touched in a completely different way, or when I was attracted to someone unexpected.

I spent a good few years saying yes to every experience that felt good. I went on dates with accomplished men in high-end industries who took me out to eat sashimi and drink champagne. I sat on mountains and drank whiskey with salt-of-the-earth men who were as creative as they were grounded. I had one-night stands with sexy bartenders who were infinitely less sexy in the morning.

I made money by going on dates with businessmen because I could carry a conversation and looked good in tight clothes. I kissed girls and ended up dating one who changed my entire outlook on my identity, sexuality and the world around me. I utilised every ounce of my sexuality until I felt like I understood it. It felt good. It felt like I was getting my power back. 

Back then, I was known among my friends as the one who openly talked about sex and the one who always had a juicy story. I’d rock up to a party and all my friends in relationships would lean in and ask, “So what’s the goss, Laura?”. I knew I had to say something spicy and I delivered. Every single time.

Now, years later, I’m six months out of my longest and most serious relationship and I feel really different. Initially, I jumped into a sexually-charged short-term relationship with a man I had next to nothing in common with. It felt intense and sexy; what I needed at the time. 

But ever since, I haven’t really felt like having sex. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sexy in a non-sexual way before. I feel sexy, but I don’t feel the need to let anyone know that. And when I say I feel sexy, I mean I look at myself in the mirror and I really like what I see. More than I ever have. I feel sexy with a sense of calm. 

Instead of walking into a room, all dressed up and waiting for a little reaction – someone to compliment my outfit, some slightly extended eye contact – I don’t feel as aware of how the world around me is reacting to me. Because I don’t think it matters that much to me anymore. 

I was having a flirty conversation with someone the other day and not once did my mind jump to ‘Where is this going?’. I didn’t think about what he was thinking, whether he was into me, whether he’d thought about kissing me, whether we were vibing or if this conversation would happen again. I was just in the moment, enjoying it. 

I noticed that there was no post-conversation anxiety, either. No thoughts were going around in my head about what I could’ve said that would’ve been wittier. I felt calm. And then I realised feeling calm isn’t my norm, which made me wonder – do I only feel drawn to sex when I’m stressed?

I think the answer might be yes, but I’m not too alarmed. Given my early experiences, it makes sense that for me – sex has been a way to feel empowered, in control and calm. When I have sex, I feel present in my body. I feel in control. I feel powerful, successful and free. Sex takes me outside of my mind and into my body in a way I find healing.

So now, at 27, I’m not feeling unsexy. I’m just feeling sexy in a way that requires no validation from others. I don’t feel the yearning to connect with another body, because I think I’m only just really starting to love mine. On its own. Without the approval of someone else’s pleasure. 

I think it’s important we revel in the moments where we don’t want to have sex, just as much as the ones where we do. I’m deciding to take this time to focus on feeling sexy with myself. Now is the time to dust off all the incredible sex toys lying in my bedside drawer. Now is the time to look in the mirror and celebrate myself. 

Finding the most rewarding sexual experiences, sexual connections and partners and moments in life must come from a connection you have with yourself, right? I’m going to take this moment to feel sexy for me. I think it’s about time. 

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