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Posts Tagged ‘kinky sex after divorce’

  1. The Aftermath: Sex After Divorce

    March 23, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    Like Heather wrote in Busting Out, we had plans for when we were sprung from the joint. Big plans. And we spent hours and hours on the phone discussing them as our soul-sucking marriages crumbled around us. Our unholy unions seemed to mirror each other’s. We were both frantically clawing our way to the surface from the hole of unhappiness we were buried in, and we were covered in resentment and bitterness. But we were evolving. We still are and those conversations were our release, they were our hope. We perfected our diabolical laughter, and we schemed about all of the ways we were going to fuck when we escaped our self-made prisons. The explicit scenarios we rattled off sounded like scenes ripped straight from the pages of a hardcore erotica novel. We meant business. Wait, we weren’t planning to fuck each other. Well, not at that point anyway.

    Unlike Heather, I didn’t have the added worry of my kinky desires affecting the custody of my children so I created a profile on FetLife and OKCupid in addition to my Ashley Madison account. They became the gateway to getting what I’d been missing for so many years, and I admit that for a short time, the word “no” disappeared from my vocabulary altogether. I came (literally), I saw, and I conquered.

    And then one day, I abruptly woke up from my orgasm hangover and realized I had been thinking with my vagina and started thinking with my head. As I sifted through the trash heap of messages from men who claimed they were the solution to what I needed, things were suddenly different. I no longer felt the rush of planning my next orgasm. The outlets I was using to rediscover the deeply sexual being I was once upon a time transformed into more of a nuisance than an answer. Every day life took precedence again and I grew less tolerant of bullshit. I judged grammar and typos harshly, and swore if I saw one more LOL scattered throughout another trumped up profile, I was going to scratch my eyeballs until they bled profusely and stab the next man I saw with a rusty butter knife just for the principal of it. I knew then that I had reached the point where it was time to find my pants and delete my profiles.

    The harsh reality is that life doesn’t wait for you to get off of your back or sober up after divorce. It doesn’t change speeds according to what is going on in your world, and it doesn’t politely give you time to adapt. It punches you in the throat with the precision of a ninja and moves ahead whether you keep up or not. I had to re-prioritize my life without the security of a unaware husband backing me up. I got pickier. I chose quality orgasms over quantity, and I chose real life over a fantasy one. The day to day tasks are still there and new ones have been added. My book still needs to be finished, bills still need to be paid, and kids still need to be taken care of, now more than ever.

    I am now officially a divorcee, a single mother, a statistic. I’m the woman, the writer, the full-time student drinking coffee in a Barnes & Noble on Saturday night while my offspring pick out books to help them reach their reading goal. I’m a survivor, and I emerged on the other side of “divorce sex” a more judicious person. I’m happy, and I smile for multiple reasons. I smile because I’ve accomplished things that I never thought I could, I smile because I’m proud of the person that I am today, and I smile because I still have lots of orgasms.

    Category Divorce | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  2. Busting Out

    March 19, 2012 by Heather Cole

    During the final months of my marriage, Nikki and I developed a ritual. Every morning we’d talk on the phone, sharing the day-to-day details of being mothers and women coping with the end of their most significant relationships. Inevitably at some point in the conversation, one of us would start the list. As with almost every other person going through the breakup of a long-term relationship, we had a list of things we were going to do when we “got out.” Two items stood out in particular: we wanted to start this blog, and we wanted to fuck. Let me be specific, we wanted to fuck a lot.

    You’re surprised, right? Oh, hush.

    I was starved for physical affection. I would have given my right arm to sit beside someone and have them hold me, brush their lips over mine or squeeze my hand. I felt like the desert, parched and yearning for a single drop of physical intimacy. I promised myself that in my new life there would be openly affectionate partners who would love me just as I was. As I struggled through the final days, trying to protect my child and my heart, I dreamed about my new life. But that was the romance novel part of the list. The rest was more explicit. In my ivory tower of the guest room, I plotted and schemed about how to get as much penis as possible.

    Tumblr helped, as did upgrading my phone for a better camera. I had sexual fantasies about everyone who crossed my path, from the guy who bagged my groceries to the woman with the beautiful hair at the post office. Not my neighbor, Greg, though. He wore black dress socks with sandals. I can forgive a lot, but not that. At one point I entertained the idea of hanging a map on the wall, complete with little red pins, marking a road trip to meet all the people I flirted with on Twitter. That would have been a long damn trip.

    Around that time a close friend of mine predicted that I would go crazy after I separated. She told me that her other divorced friends went through a period of acting out, of fucking and drinking and doing all the things they hadn’t been doing while married. I remember the women she referred to and how I had shaken my head about their outrageous behavior. Then, suddenly, I became that woman..

    I was standing at the cusp of something big and wondrous and scary as hell. I was millimeters away from  beginning something entirely new, a life that was solely my own. The interminable feeling of waiting for that moment when every part of you is screaming to break free, the pressure of that contradicting action vs inaction, was a pressure cooker inside me. I was ready to blow. In more ways than one.

    I will not lie. After I separated, there was a man and a hotel room and the first oral sex I had in eight years. I didn’t know him well, but I was greedy and impatient. The room held the smell of clean sheets and a whiff of tobacco. I wore my favorite heels and panties the color of raspberries. As clothes were unbuttoned and hastily shoved aside, I reveled in the fierce joy of touching him. The texture of his skin underneath my fingertips, the taste of his kisses and the glorious sensation of his lips on my clit. As I lay there basking in an incredible orgasm, gazing unseeingly at the ceiling, I knew it was only the beginning of what I could have. Followed rapidly by the thought, “holy fucking shit what the hell am I doing?”

    The months afterwards were intense and there was a lot of fucking. There are still days when I am a big ball of sexual need. The key is not always acting on it. (Nikki, stop laughing.)  I have a child and bills and a new life that I’m creating that takes a lot of energy and attention. I’m writing a novel and honing my craft and settling into a new city. Real life and responsibilities often leave me with little extra energy for a Twitter road trip.

    To those women and men who go a little nuts after the breakup, I get it now. We all have our version of “crazy.” I empathize with what you’re going through, and I hope that you’re using condoms. Just don’t let it go on too long. At some point soon you should rehydrate, pull up your big girl panties and get on with real life. Because that shit don’t wait.

    Category Divorce | Tags: ,, | 1 Comment