Being cast aside after sex makes me feel overexposed, as though I’ve given a man a bag full of secrets I’ll never be able to hide from him again. If I could spot the runners up front, my sex life wouldn’t need all this room I’ve set aside for regret.
Everywhere I look, people are happily picking up play partners from every corner as though Christmas finally learned how to be slutty. Occasionally, I’m one of them, and I’m happy to be if my play partner doesn’t put 60 miles between us before breakfast. I don’t expect lifetime commitment–just ongoing connection, platonic or no.
I love how sex-positive this community is about casual play. I’m less infatuated with people who hide their desire for a passing hook-up to manipulate me into a dynamic I want to avoid. The Common Dudebro of the Wank Fodder Genus does it by faking interest to convince you to hand over personalised smut, and pick up artists aren’t all that different. Their push-pull-abandon cycle leaves me feeling as if my old bag of secrets has been scattered all over the floor.
And that leaves me feeling as though I’ve been scattered all over the floor.
These days, I’m better at spotting runners before I remove my underwear. I’ve not been chewed up and spat out for years because it turns out that a lack of interest is pretty easy to spot. If I’m confused about your motives, it’s usually a sign that you’re not interested in anything except my vagina.
But I don’t always trust my intuition.
Yesterday, I was telling a friend that I’d be meeting a new man in a suburb halfway between his home and mine. He said, “You’re worth so much more than halfway.”
I’m demisexual, so throw-away sex is my halfway. If you’re into throw-away sex, my approach is your halfway. The moment we forget we’re worth all the way is the moment we trip over dynamics that doesn’t work for us.