Sex After Divorce Was a Chance to Explore All My Fantasies


BDLM / Getty ImagesSex had been absent from my marriage for so long that I'd started to wonder about my sexuality.
My feverish googling started sometime during 2017.
“How to know if you’re a lesbian.”
“Discovering you’re gay while in a heterosexual marriage.”
“What does asexual mean?”
Sex dating!
I was about a year into a sexual dry spell, which also happened to coincide with years three and four of my heterosexual marriage. I couldn’t figure out why my sex drive had completely dried up, despite being just 32 years old. Weren’t women supposed to reach their sexual peak in their 30s? I loved my husband. I’d had a varied and active sex life, exclusively with men, before I met him. But now I didn’t want to have sex with anyone—including my husband—and I couldn’t figure out why. At some point, understandably, he stopped wanting to have sex with me too.
My thoughts became more desperate as I watched friends around me forming new relationships or making children in established ones. I was depressed, my marriage was rapidly deteriorating, and I had to face the obvious: We likely weren’t in love with each other nor attracted to each other anymore, which would mean our whole lives would have to change. That was a terrifyingly painful thought to accept, so for months I looked for other explanations—like wondering whether I was a closeted lesbian or maybe even asexual.
In early 2018, when the obvious became too clear to ignore any longer, my marriage ended for good.

Suddenly I was newly single at age 32. In the six years I’d been out of the dating market, the landscape had changed drastically. Dating apps, which had become ubiquitous among single people I knew in my city, didn’t even exist the last time I was rolling solo. Add to that the fact that I had been celibate now for two years, in a sex desert so dry I was questioning my sexuality and my mental health. I was downright terrified to jump back into the proverbial pond.
Soon after, I was seated next to a man at a dinner party who immediately caught my attention. He was brooding, funny, sarcastic, and incredibly intense. He wanted to know everything about me, told me he thought I was pretty, and eventually asked for my number. When we met up for a date, I felt for the first time in years like my old sexual self, turning on the charm and sarcasm, and at some point letting it slip that I thought he should come back to my apartment. A couple of bottles of wine later, I announced that I would be sleeping in my bed and he in the adjacent guest bedroom, still feeling skittish about the idea of having sex.

He grabbed me by the waist kissed me deeply—the first time anyone had done so in years. At first I tensed, startled by the touch. But my reservations melted as his hands wandered over my body. After 10 hot minutes of making out, I scurried into my bed alone, giddy like a preteen girl who'd just had her first kiss and terrified like, well, a recent divorcee who hadn’t been touched in a very long time. Underneath all of the weirdness and terror, I also felt something powerful: desire.
Two weeks later we met again and had sex for the first time. At first it was scary, but he was a passionate and intense partner. That began a three-month-long affair of intimate sex, and countless nights talking until the sun came up. Turns out I wasn’t asexual after all. But that doesn’t mean it was a healthy attachment—we both had serious challenges that we were not properly addressing. We eventually parted ways as friends, but for those few months, he was exactly what I needed. Sexually, I felt alive again. And that made me feel like myself again.
My family and friends noticed an instant change. Multiple people asked, “What the hell happened to you?” marveling at my new, positive attitude. Truthfully, the answer was that I was finally getting laid. I felt beautiful. Wanted. Needed.

Other lingering questions from my celibacy still hung over me like a cloud about to burst into a rainstorm. Was I attracted to women? Should I look into sleeping with multiple partners? I probably need to have a one night stand, right? I had fantasized about all of the former over the years—my pornography preferences often included women over men and sometimes involved group sex. The universe had given me unexpected singledom, I reasoned. The chance to explore other sides of my sexuality had arrived.
Shortly after, I reconnected with an old friend while on a trip for work. Toward the end of the trip, she and a man she had been seeing ended up with me and a bottle of whiskey in a hot tub, winding down from a hurried week of meetings.
Over the course of our conversation, they had been inching closer towards each other. At some point she lifted her hand and beckoned towards me, inviting me to their corner of the whirlpool. I thought, Why not? and floated over. I remember feeling someone’s hands—I couldn’t tell whose—making their way up my thighs and between my legs. Soon we were a mess of hands and limbs, kissing each other and casually passing the bottle around. We ended up back in my hotel room, where my friend and I mainly had sex—my first time with a woman—while her date mostly watched. After she and I finished, I asked him to have sex with just me. I realized in that moment that while I appreciated and enjoyed having sex with a woman, at the end of the day, it’s men that really get me going.
That encounter ended a years-long question about my sexuality—I enjoyed having sex with women but I only wanted to date men.
Not long after, I met the man who would become my first serious boyfriend since my divorce. This brought up a fear I hadn’t yet tackled: the thought that deep down I was afraid of intimacy. I wondered if I had lost my sexual appetite for my ex-husband precisely because we were so emotionally close—was I just too mentally shattered to have a healthy sex life within an intimate relationship?
As the months with my new boyfriend wore on, it became clear that we were building a killer sexual connection. I remember one time during sex giggling and laughing into each others’ bodies, whispering with limited breath how much fun we were having. Our sex was on point—so satisfying, excited, and connected. It only got better over time as our emotional and physical connection deepened.
There were normal issues in the relationship: He hadn’t been in a serious one in years, for his own reasons, and clearly I had baggage of my own. But I finally knew that I wasn’t afraid to get intimate. I learned it was possible for me to be vulnerable and open with my emotions while also opening up sexually.
In the past year and a half, I went from a sexually confused celibate wife to a curious, pleasure-seeking and liberated woman having the best sex of my life. I have learned more about myself during this time than I did in the over 10 years of being sexually active before I got married. The opportunity to have this second chance to re explore and redefine healthy sexuality for myself—to finally accept and celebrate the fact that I am a deeply sexual person—is an unexpected gift I never could have imagined during the initial fog and pain of divorce. It’s a gift I know I’ll carry with me no matter what twists and turns life continues to throw my way.

sources:glamour.com

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