“Your heart’s, like, in your vagina.” Christina Yang, Grey’s Anatomy
Ten years ago, I wept a tear and scratched casual sex off my list of favourite hobbies. It’s not that I’m incapable of first date shags. I can enjoy those with the best of them. It’s that I’m completely incapable of keeping it casual after that because, to me, sex is a prequel for true love. You’d think I was born in a Disney Princess movie. Once I’ve seen your penis, I will almost certainly decide it needs to become a fulltime character in my life story. If the sex is hot enough, I will probably cry. If it’s hot for months on end, I’ll probably fall in love with you because my heart’s, like, in my vagina.
I’ve never identified as a demisexual because I don’t need to feel much for you to have sex with you. I’m just a romantic. I cried during Meredith Grey’s “Pick me. Choose me. Love Me” speech. I once got engaged three months after I met Mr Right, then I took another decade to get over him. I took two more to finally admit he wasn’t Mr Right after all. See? Disney princess. When you kiss me, you bring something in me back to life, and there’s only one way to respond to that: to think in happily ever afters.
My greatest relationship liability is that I attach far too much and much too soon. My mother spent most of my adult life trying to talk me out of giving so much of myself. She never managed to convince me, though. Feeling less in case I get hurt makes as much sense as not jumping into the sea in case I get too cold. I would rather live completely and get hurt than live a half-hearted life that comes with half-hearted pain.
So yes, I will let you hurt me, but that’s an asset. I will fall for you, but isn’t that some of life’s best miracles?