Why Won’t I Let Him Touch Me?

My sex drive has entirely changed over the last few years. I probably should have warned you before diving in with something like that. Sorry. But depression, anxiety, and stress has probably had a huge part to play in the whole bonkers libido business, as well as going self-employed, quitting my job, bouncing from one highly inappropriate man to the next, the cervical cancer scare, the bowel cancer scare, and then going through the Brown Eyes saga. I’m not totally devoid of a sex drive these days but something has most definitely happened to it. I think I had a bleak spell. I’m having a bleak spell. I don’t really know how to describe it but I’m going to go with this …

I think I was on my way to sinking into the clutches of depression again. Maybe I’m still on the way? Crying all the time, no appetite one minute and binge-eating the next, insomnia, not giving a fuck about things that would normally really affect me, giving more of a shit about things that would usually bounce right off my shoulders … I’ve had a really bad slump-spell and needed to slap myself around the face a little bit. Hard.

My sex drive is one of the things that I’ve found is suffering the most. Bear is getting increasingly more annoyed that we aren’t having sex, and we’ve found ourselves evaluating a few things. We were in bed one night when Bear said that he thought I was still suffering from depression a little, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I’ve given it some thought. I think he might be right.

We’ve been trying little steps to help me out; to help us both out. Working out my sex drive is one of them.

It’s not completely gone but it does entirely disappear from one week to the next. Or I’ll give him lots of blowjobs and handjobs, but for some reason, I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want his hands to reach beneath my underwear. We’ve had plenty of sexual activity. Well, plenty is probably too strong a word, but we have had some. The full, penetrative stuff? I can’t actually remember the last time we did that.

I was waiting for a wax again, and you know how I get when I’m not entirely bald down there: I feel about as sexy as … well, something that’s not very sexy. Add to that the fact it is a hundred and one degrees in our apartment all the time, our bathroom has flooded twice in a month, the move has hit us both a lot harder than we thought in the financial department, and there’s been some other stuff going on. I’ll get to that. I promise I’ll get to that.

But what I’m trying to say here is that I don’t feel sexy. There are too many other things in my head. Getting in the shower at all seems to be a struggle. Asking me to shave my legs or more than that? Well, that’s taking the piss as far as I’m concerned. I can’t be bothered. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.

That’s bullshit. I know exactly what is wrong with me: my mental health is playing silly fuckers right now. I’m really struggling. Ask me when I last left the house. Go on, ask me. It was over two weeks ago. In fact, it might even have been longer than that.

I told you: I’m struggling.

When I struggle I stop giving a shit about anything except work – my laptop, my emails, my websites, my clients, my writing. That’s it. That’s the only important thing. I will wake up in the morning, drink the tea that Bear has made me, watch Jeremy Kyle and then open up my laptop. With the exception of doing some laundry or having a jaunt around the apartment, that’s all I do. I work. I work, work, work, work, work. I talk about it a lot lately, but that’s because it’s the ONLY thing I have to talk about. Even my social events are somewhat work-based. That’s because I have no real-life friends left … because of this shit slump.

Sex is the last thing on my mind right now. In fact, that’s total bullshit too, because it’s not the last thing on my mind. It’s the only thing on my mind. I’m thinking about it, I just don’t want to do it. I drop to my knees and give Bear head without even so much as a second thought yet we can’t remember the last time he touched me. I prance around, being flirty and sassy/sexy, letting him have sneak peeks of bits of me, but I don’t actually let him get his hands on me. It’s driving him nuts. It’s also driving me nuts.

To make life even harder to explain, I still feel the need to relieve myself. But it’s not because I’m horny; it’s because of something else … I don’t know? Stress relief? Anger relief? Any kind of relief that I can get my hands on?

I know it has nothing to do with Bear. I’m still just as sexually attracted to him now as I was when we first started dating. More so. I love his cock being in my mouth, or in my hands, but that’s it. Sex is off the table, and so is letting him touch me.

Why? It’s weird, right? How am I meant to explain this? How do I get around this?

Why won’t I let him touch me?

Photo by Angelos Michalopoulos on Unsplash