So, I have a confession to make. Well, two, actually. I’m the worst girlfriend ever, and the worst sex editor ever. Why? Mind your fucking business, and also because I recently went three weeks without having sex with my boyfriend. And the icing on my double-decker failure cake, decoratively topped with sex-starved tuxedo and gown-wearing miniature figurines about to swear their little plastic penises and vaginas away? It took me two whole weeks to write about it. No sex + no writing = no measurable imprint on society. Off the grid. Consider yourself warned, this story is a little lengthy. As a courtesy to my readers, I’ve divided it into two segments, the second of which I will publish on a later date after the clit-hanger…err cliff-hanger. Too much? Too soon? NEVER.

Ok, what was I saying? Oh yeah…I’m basically a born again virgin. I’m sure that many of you have been on juice cleanses that lasted longer than this celibate stint, and that’s so admirable and you should probably be building houses in Kenya instead of reading this filth (wait, come back!), but, as for me, the intrepid sex and relationships editor of Cultist Zine, who, for the most part, lacks discipline and willpower of any kind (especially in regards to cheese products), flagrant sexuality is the cornerstone of my existence. And if I’m not doing it, I should at least be writing about why I’m not. Unless it’s something horribly embarrassing like a rancid yeast infection, which it totally isn’t. I swear. Don’t you remember that I have an abnormally healthy Vagina (yes, we capitalize the Vagina around here). Get with it. #pussypower.

So, let’s dive in to why my netherlips (Ed Note: really Jane? Netherlips?) have been sealed as of late. Like me, you’re probably surprised to learn that when weaned off of the cock, my pussy did not shrivel or wilt or cry (at least not audibly). (Also, was that uncomfortable for you?) He didn’t leave me (my boyfriend, nor my vagina. She’s a she, and she does not have the luxury of choosing her master). Aside from the mentally draining emotional roller-coaster that is my over-analyical brain on fourteen years of intensive cognitive therapy causing me to spiral into full-blown-panic-mode about whether our sexual chemistry was dwindling or if we’d lost our “spark” (this was mostly a one-way conversation, as you can imagine), I didn’t even notice the absence of sex, at least not the physical part.

In fact, the only profound thing about the void was knowing that it was there at all, like the pink elephant in the room that was supposedly an indicator of a festering problem in my relationship; like that friend you brought to a party who got inappropriately drunk and now you don’t know what to with her so you kind of just watch her flounder and make of an ass of herself and everyone she encounters, which is not a nice approach at all, now that I think about it.

According to most sex blogs and everything I’ve ever been told in life by aging ladies and eager young beavers that permanently hover over a cock like some sort of protective mama bird guarding her eggs from predators, I was jeopardizing my relationship by neglecting my boyfriend’s needs and being a selfish [insert misogynist slur]. But, you know the weirdest thing? Contrary to all of the cautionary tales and horror stories about the perils of not putting out, I don’t think he cared or noticed. Aside from the 17 times a day I brought it up, it didn’t feel like an issue in the slightest. In fact, we were doing better than ever; dare I say more connected than we’d ever been before? Oh yes, I’m going there… In the absence of sex, there was extreme emotional intimacy. Gag me with a ladle.

Being a fertile young woman who enjoys sex, and has made a (sporadically) paying hobby out of publicizing my musings on it, it feels foreign and almost sacrilegious to admit my indifference to it. But though I thought about [insert euphemism for love making] abundantly, it was mostly because I felt like I was supposed to, rather than because I actively craved it. But it’s not that I felt grossed out by the act or by my lover, nor that I was feeling disinterested or turned off, it just didn’t occur to me in that primal way it I’d become so accustomed to. Though over the duration of those few weeks, there were several counts of steamy make outs and heavy-petting, all of it proved anti-climatic, fizzling out into an emotional-cuddle fest complete with deep eye-gazing and freckle-tracing and promises of the future and sing alongs to Bon Iver. (Ed Note: I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, Bon Iver is the Dave Matthews Band of our generation. That being said if you’re into some deep eye-gazing to “Crash Into Me”, call me!)

Now that I think about it, it was like being in a lesbian relationship all over again. But this time with a better haircut and sans militant feminism. It led me to revisit all of those times I’d defaulted on sex for comfort and validation, rather than asking for, or better yet demanding, the emotional connection that I really required.

Tune in tomorrow for part 2 of this titillating tale. Until next time, you creepy voyeurs. 


Jane Helpern

About Jane Helpern

Writer & Over-sharer. @janeohelp