I’d broken up with my boyfriend. Not because I didn’t love him, but because I’m sober and I couldn’t share him with drugs anymore. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to.
I blocked him on messenger, Facebook, sent his emails to spam, etc. And I waited — and hoped — for him to wake up and come knocking on my door.
Then one Friday night about three weeks later, I got this WhatsApp message:
“Are we still together?”
“Good. Thought I’d check. Because I’m going on a date.”
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That shook me. I had thought he might have been pining for me. Hitting his bottom. Instead, he was out having the time of his life.
So what was I doing? Waiting around?
I instantly signed up on Tinder, Bumble and OK Cupid (I don’t do anything by halves). By the following night, I had a date.
The following week, I had two more (a second date and a new guy). The first date was lovely. But we ran out of things to say on the second.
The new guy asked if I wanted to be in a relationship with him… one hour in.
Then there was the OK Cupid guy who liked pee…
I quickly realised I actually didn’t want to date.
It wasn’t until my therapist asked me, “What is it about him that you really missed?”, that it hit me: I missed the sex.
We had amazing, intimate sex.
The way our bodies responding to each other, how we communicated. It was passionate, sensual, and f**king hot. We’d done things I’d never tried — new positions, anal play, toys. I was opening up with him in ways I never had before.
The conclusion I jumped to: I didn’t want to date. I wanted more sex: This guy had uncorked a sexual genie that I didn’t want to put back in the bottle.