Sex Ed.

There is more right with you than wrong.

I had a therapist once who used to tell me, "As long as you can take a full, deep breath into your lungs, there is more right with you than wrong."

Today, on the most gorgeous day we've seen in the Bay, I finally succumbed to the pseudo-strep throat thing that’s been passing around work, and this afternoon, I'm performing a preview scene of the play I’m in that opens at the end of the month.

So, I take homeopathics, vitamin Cs, a heavy dose of over-the-counter Western, and The Show Must Go On.

And I’ve been thinking about sex. Because, who hasn’t?

I’ve been thinking about the unintentional self-imposed celibacy I was in from August of 2011 through October of 2013. You can do math, and understand that’s more than two years without sex.

And, it’s not like there were some clandestine, but ultimately PG-13 moments in there, either. It was pretty much a white-out period.

Granted, about 8 of those months I was bald and a sallow shade of green, but, the year prior to cancer was not a wanton, robust one.

It was sort of intentional. I’d broken up with my ex in the early months of 2011, had two rounds of rebound sex that left me feeling more empty than fulfilled, and a few months later, found myself back in bed with my ex in a misguided attempt to see if we could pump (pun intended) life back into our relationship.

We couldn’t. And I finally realized that giving the milk for free was wearing me down.

And so began the Great Celibacy of my 30th Year. The year women are purported to have the greatest libido. Probably because our bodies are sending Morse Code messages through our hormones, stating, Get on with the baby-making thing, lady, Time’s a marching.

I began sending texts to two girl friends as each month passed: Two months, no sex. Six months, no sex. A YEAR, no sex. It was appalling but also, I wasn’t about to jump into the sack with anyone just to get my rocks off – because, honestly, you can’t ever be sure that your rocks will get off with someone you don’t know that way. It’s a crap shoot, and is it worth it to have lackluster sex with someone who you know you’re not that into? Hm.

It’s not as if I denied myself the pleasures of carnality; I took matters amply in hand. But it wasn’t the same. It’s never the same—as good sex, at least. Sure, you’re pretty sure you’re gonna get your happy ending, and don’t have to think about what you do afterward, how long you wait for him to leave, or if you cuddle or not. But, part of a poem I wrote during the celibacy goes:

i only ever imagine the weight of you

when i’m alone with myself at night

i can find folds that you can’t

and pace myself as you won’t

but alone, i can never press myself into the

evaporating softness

                                 or grip the muscles of your back

as if you were my life preserver

I once read a story that included the line, “At night, she masturbated herself to an unsmiling orgasm.” What a waste.

I broke the celibacy last Fall with a very pointed and mutually understood bootie call with someone I’d been on a internet date with twice, but who wanted to just hook up, and though there was certainly physical chemistry, I didn’t want that and we parted amicably. A year and a half after that date, my hair grown back to something I could pass as feminine, I asked him if he was still interested in something “casual,” and he was, and I was, and we were, and it was...Awesome.

But, that poem of mine concludes:

how does this alchemy work?

lead returns to lead as

i bolt the door behind you

the moment gimped

by an awkward exchange of

‘see you’s

what tangle the sheets are in,

still warm,

i climb back into them as if

i could coax them into being

you

and you were something else

So sometimes, celibacy is the better answer, isn’t it?

“Life is meant to be lived,” has been going through my head, though. And my body is still one of a woman in her early thirties receiving and extending messages that say, Virile and Viable. And sometimes, it’s worth the awkward exchange, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes you eat the cupcake, and sometimes you don’t. And sometimes you take a full, deep breath and remember that there is more right with you than wrong. And perfection is an illusion, “really.”