I sexed my way through this election—and don’t confuse that as a typo for “sexted.” (I’ve already discussed my issues with sexting, which you can read about here.) I’m saying I fucked my way through the rise of Donald Trump, which is closer to the title I wanted to use but couldn’t because of Google’s search-engine rules. And I say fuck because that’s all it was: pure, unadulterated, no-strings-attached fucking. At least at first.
Men have always put the “dick” in addiction for me. Now that I’ve quit drinking and essentially every other substance, the only vices I have left to abuse are coffee and men. With this year’s election driving Americans to drink and me to the brink of sobriety, I did what any reasonable person who would do. I turned to my default drug of choice: men. Specifically, a man who happened to be the most emotionally unavailable guy I could find.
Tall, chiseled, hilarious and hung, this guy was the perfect lay because he was a constant challenge. He once told me he “gets sick of the pussy” after three times in bed. He was aloof and my favorite type of alpha-male asshole. He could objectify me, I could objectify him and we would bang happily ever after, right?
At first it was great: we’d have sex, I’d come a few times, he’d come and then he would leave. I wouldn’t think about him much afterward. In using sex as a sort of coping mechanism, however, I violated one of my rules, the Seven Orgasm Rule, which created a problem.
To remind my readers, the Seven Orgasm Rule is simple. After receiving seven orgasms from the same man, something takes over me. I lose the ability to control my attachment to my partner, making it impossible for us to have sex again unless we start moving toward something serious. I’m not a scientist, but I’m certain a chemical process involving oxytocin or pheromones is to blame. Either way, I notice this (probably) chemical-driven dependency kick in like clockwork on the eve of orgasm number eight. Every. Damn. Time.
A broken part of me wanted to be rejected. In fact, I craved it.
This time, however, I ignored my rule. I loved his skin. His smell and voice were increasingly intoxicating. I found myself thinking about him when he wasn’t around. I constantly wondered when I could see him again. I became hooked. Eventually, he started spending the night.
One night, our sex suddenly felt intimate. Maybe it was the Led Zeppelin playing in the background, but it felt like my heart was involved. I’ve never been so creeped out in my life. It was then, well into orgasm number who-knows-how-many, that I realized lest we got serious, we couldn’t fuck again.
And then I fucked him three more times.
I blame the election.
It was two weeks before November 8th and I caught myself circling the drain. I couldn’t stop thinking about this guy. I told myself I wouldn’t see him again, but immediately responded whenever he texted me. I felt powerless and my behavior became unmanageable. It was around this time I realized I was lying to myself. I had developed feelings for a fuckboy.
That sounds ridiculous, not to mention like a Blink 182 song in the making, so I told him straight out that I could no longer see him because I had caught the feels. He responded, “Okay, thanks.” At first, I was relieved we were on the same page—until he texted me four days later. I didn’t even put up a fight. We banged. He left. I felt shitty. And then, soon after that, I hit rock bottom.
I hate sharing this story because it’s embarrassing, humiliating and demoralizing, but I’m going to share it because hopefully, it will help me if I’m tempted to go back to him. Or maybe it’ll help someone who’s in a similar dysfucktional relationship. At the very least, it might help some men understand that smart, confident women can become really fucking stupid when it comes to guys. Know this: almost a week later, the knot in my stomach is still unbearable.
When he came over, we immediately launched into hot, kinky sex. The next morning, I woke up like I always do: horny. He was sleeping restlessly next to me, so I started doing what I often do when I want a man to mount me: I start touching myself. He ignored me and rolled over, leaving me to finish the job. When I did, I looked back over to and found him doing something incredibly disparaging. He was on his phone, and had been the entire time.
Remember when I said rock bottom?
I haven’t felt that shitty and stupid in a long time. My ego was bruised. To make matters worse, I started crying, which is the last thing you want do in front of an emotionally unavailable booty call. I tried to shake it off to watch SNL with him, but he didn’t see what the big deal was. He was looking at “work stuff,” he said, and I was being overly emotional. “You have one job.” I told him. If our relationship was purely physical, his only job was to make sure I was satisfied.
“You’re being a baby. We’re just hanging out.”
“Get out.” I said.
Yes, he hurt my feelings, but worse than that, I had no one to blame but myself. I know better than to confuse the butterflies of Love with the rush of getting high off someone who is inherently bad for me. The feelings of anticipation before I used to do cocaine were nearly identical to what I felt before the fuckboy came over. I wanted to trick myself into thinking I was falling for him when in fact, I was just addicted to him. A broken part of me wanted to be rejected. In fact, I craved it. The strange thing is I know I deserve better, but I didn’t want better—at least not with him.
I know I’m a goddess, a catch and all that shit you tell yourself when you’re getting over the sting of rejection, but if falling for a fuckboy has proven anything, it’s that I fell for him because I wanted to feel like shit. I wanted a high, which means I also wanted the low. I liked the push-and-pull dynamic that was awakening my old addictive tendencies that desperately sought relief. I went to an empty well expecting to find water and was surprised when I came up dry. Why? If we objectify people, we can’t be upset when they let us down and don’t live up to our sex-doll expectations.
For me, emptiness and meaninglessness are—as fucked up as this sounds—comfortable from time to time because they can numb bigger feelings like fear, grief and absurdity—all of which have been triggered by the election. The first step is admitting I have a problem. This election may have made me realize I have an unhealthy, escapist relationship to sex. So now I have to deal with my sex addiction. Awesome. Add it to the fucking list. In all fairness, the guy I was having sex with was not my problem. I am my own problem, and that is always the most painful truth to face.