Fail: Take 1

… and then I broke my celibacy… well – kind of. Whatever. I titled this “Take 1,” because I am hyper aware of my uniquely strong propensity towards fuck ups. So….

Honestly you know that feeling when you can’t quite get a GOOD breath? And you keep inhaling and inhaling… and somehow it just doesn’t feel like it gets the job done… until! You *finally* get that one inhalation that makes you feel like you can really. just. breathe? That’s how I feel when I’m not having sex. And the breath just doesn’t fully… {should I do it? Of course I am going to} …doesn’t fully cum until I do… And it’s been 43 days. FORTY THREE DAYS. Le sigh.

Photo Mar 23, 6 44 45 PMI know that I haven’t fully unpacked the why and how of my path to this particular journey of celibacy. And I do plan to do so much more for you soon. But if I were to boil down the nuclear source of how my fucked-up-ness led me to a therapist’s office on a random Tuesday when I had to answer the question “So what brings you in today?” with “I need to learn how to love again…,” it would be my 3 year relationship with that tall drink of water next to me here. ^^^^^ And here is why:

  • While men who came before AND after him did pleeennntttyyy of damage, Dionysus* (D for short) unleashed my Khaleesi. 
  • D taught me to use sex as a coping mechanism / stress outlet.
  • D was 6’4, impossibly handsome, and a total fucking textbook narcissist at best and sociopath at worse.

The reason for this context is that D… {the 4th man I had ever slept with – FOURTH}… was available as a stress fuck for almost 3 years. So after breaking up, I had to learn how to COPE. And in one of those iterations of coping skills practice, I realized that I could still use sex as a stress reliever/ emotion suppressant if I just asked men to be such. (Spoiler alert: I am celibate now, so this method currently has a 0% proven long term effectiveness rate.)

So here I am. And it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.  So I caved. I caved for no reason other than I felt like it. But in defense of me, my mind is not right as a general rule, and I was deep in it. “It” being the barren waist-lands of celibacy mixed with a series of extremely hard days in a row. It was so bad that I recently dreamed about the only girl I ever dated. But as proof that therapy is working, I didn’t text her after waking up from said dream. I just kept that repressed along with the repression of any thing that feels like sustained failure personally, professionally, and/or psychologically. Then I texted one of my old faithfuls.

I should have known. He wanted to have conversation tonight. He told me he was waiting for his Tylenol to kick in, but he didn’t tell me that until we were already in bed. So then there we are. Laying in bed — talking. Watching random funny videos. All of these things are off limits with the old faithfuls. He knows this. The rules for OFs are 1) do not fall in love, 2) no cuddling, no pillow talk, 3) I am not your emergency contact under any circumstance, 4) no cunnilingus, 5) no spending the night.


We start hooking up. I will spare you the details for this particular OF, but he is doing just fine. Then —

something just —


“I have to pee!” I blurted out as I found my shorts and did that awkward scoot to the bathroom where you cup your boobs as if he wasn’t just literally laying on them. So I do. I pee. I take some deep breaths. I swish and spit some water. Then I exhale and open the bathroom door to walk back into his room. I don’t even fully round the corner before he says it.


Him: What if…

Me (internally): no no no no please don’t please don’t. please please please. no no no

Him: … what if I told you that I loved you?

Me (internally): NOOOOOOO Embed from Getty Images

So I did what any obviously rational, well-medicated, half-naked, totally fine woman does when a man whose few instructions  included a very clear request to not fall in love says that he loves you.


I put my panties back on, started the humiliating search for my bra while still cupping my boobs even as I bent over, and I said something along the lines of, “Thinking that you love me is just illogical. You know nothing about me. I arrive as a drunken sexual phoenix every couple of days then disappear. You don’t know my middle name. You have no idea what my quirks are if they are not connected to my naked body. You love the half girl. You love the part of girl that every man loves. Not me.” Or I may have stuttered through an apology and sprinted out his garage in the dark. Methinks it was most likely something about half way between the two…

Ok. So reset the clock. I guess? Just breathe… xx-Leah


*Reminder. These are pseudonyms. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Or yeah- maybe you know him or ARE him, and this is the blog you’ve always feared? Whatever. 


2 thoughts on “Fail: Take 1

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