I lost my voice.

I don’t know when it happened, or even why. But one day was different than all of the others, and I couldn’t speak. Not literally, though I have experienced laryngitis, and it’s almost as disconcerting. This is when you lose the ability to speak your mind, your soul. All that you are, and everything you’re about suddenly vanishes — and you can’t say where it’s gone, or how it disappeared. Worse, you have no idea how to get it back.

Those of you who find themselves musically-inclined will recognise the title as a song of the same name from Pink Floyd’s Division Bell album, which I would’ve worn out, had it been vinyl. It has particular meaning for this post. That particular group, along with Moody Blues, NIN, Sarah, Tori, Smiths, Cure, and more than I can name here, provided the soundtrack for most of the salient experiences of my youth and young adulthood.

I sort of remember the day I suddenly realised I’d lost the ability to feel. I remember when sex became clinical, and then simply unimportant. I couldn’t say why, however. The abuse? My past? The shame of it all? I’m simply more cerebral than sexual? After all, there were more times than I can count which I’d favoured writing — or even bloody daydreaming — over engagement of the physical act of sex. So … complicated. Messy. Took planning, and really, seemed pointless. I’d get to experience pleasure — physically — for a mere fraction of the time I would ride the holistic high from completing a particular scene, or resolving a plot issue, or finding that I’d written some of my better work.

That was when I’d had the startling moment that I really just didn’t like sex.

I’d had a complex enough history with it; very fickle. But, still, it was one of those things that would not land you happily-ever-after, no matter how you sliced it, and a part of me decided to ignore it. Launch a full-scale denial campaign, conveniently avoiding the realisation that I wasn’t like everyone else, (of which I was already painfully aware in other arenas) and figuring that, at least I had control over the world that existed between my ears.

So, the rest of me just took up residence there. For years. It was fine, to an extent. Helped me endure what would’ve possibly done much more lasting damage during a four-year abusive relationship. It also allowed me to fully disengage any sort of emotionality from sex, which was what I had secretly been seeking all along. At first, I suppose I figured it’d make me happy — to feel more in control, not needing, not craving, not wanting sex. The romantic within me became tragically activated; always seeking, dreaming of, longing for some sort of idyllic love affair that really only existed upon my hard drive, or occasionally, within the pages of rare fiction that spoke to me — into which I’d endlessly escape while somehow managing to function. (Have friends, maintain a full-time job, block out the abusive boyfriend, etc.)

I know what you’re thinking: ‘That’s not a life.’

No. It’s not.

People can survive in a stifled environment that disallows them to develop or ever express their full potential. But that’s about all they can do. They can’t actually thrive, since most of their daily existence is dedicated to escaping all that depresses or seeks to prevent them from changing their circumstances — which, in time, they do themselves. Trust me on that one. I hadn’t realised that a constellation of factors had emerged to ruin my sexuality — or rather, my relationship to my sexuality. One day, I simply disowned it. I fear it was so long ago, I can’t even say when. Most importantly, I had no idea how to get it back.

Until … today.

Who the hell knows why things happen as they do? Only that sometimes, they just do. In my case, it was recounting a particular portion of my past with a young woman I came to mentor sometime earlier this year. This sort of exchange of mutual experiences has proven insightful for each of us, and there’s no rhythm or structure to it. Mine begun with the usual recent fretting over a personal issue with which I’ve been struggling, and somehow ended in my recalling and sharing the circumstances surrounding the very first time I ever did the deed. Specifically, why. While it’s not essential, I’ll provide the Reader’s Digest here for you.

I didn’t have a lot of female friends in high school or college. Never did. I tended to be more of a tomboy, and thus, my best friend my first-year of college was, likewise, a guy. My astrophysics lab partner, in fact, since he was horrible with conclusions and writing labs, and mathematics and I’ve never been on very good terms. It was a win-win. He was also a writer, and from that alone, a lifelong friendship was born. (We writers are all a bit on the cracked side, anyway. It’s always nice when we find a fellow lunatic.)

I had chosen to maintain my virginity for two reasons; one, it fit the image of me that my parents cherished, and two, I’d heard too many horror stories about people’s lives getting completely blown apart because of sex. It just seemed best to steer clear, and as I took up Psychology, I learned of even more reasons for waiting until I was really sure I knew enough of what I was doing to make sure I didn’t become a casualty myself.

I’d decided, upon turning 21, that was was good enough. I could contribute (or so, I believed at the time) to the election of political figures and could legally consume alcohol. I was, for all the world, an adult. A grown-up. Which seemed strange to me, because I’d always felt both that I’d been something of an adult all of my life, and yet, perpetually a child. (It’s a paradox with which I continue to wrestle.) I knew I probably wouldn’t really understand the full depth of this whole sex thing, but I figured that it was time enough I leave the ranks of the uninitiated.

I walked over to the other end of campus, where the best friend (upon whom I would soon tack on ‘with-benefits’) of mine lived, and explained rather simply, (even though his very attractive roommate was there at the time, too) that I was newly 21 and tired of being a virgin. It made the most sense, given that he was, too, (and just a slight younger, by a few months) that we ought to rectify the situation together. (Those may have been my exact words, if I recall. I know. I was a regular sex-bomb.) Being my best friend, and someone I trusted greatly, it seemed the wisest move to do our experimenting with each other before embarking on any sort of serious relationship where our inexperience would only count against us. He agreed. (But what recently teenaged male wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to have sex with his female best friend? Hell-o?).

What resulted was neither memorable nor awful. After the sizable endowment of my prior high school boyfriends, he was severely lacking in comparison, but quickly devised other skills to compensate. Since we weren’t in a relationship, but remained very good friends, we’d share in each other’s experiences with casual dates and what-not — even if they involved other mutual friends. I suppose that should’ve seemed strange, and yet, it didn’t. I believe while I had a type of love for him, and always will, I was never in love with him. I didn’t use him for the purpose of sexual advancement, education, and exploration — per se. But then, perhaps, we used each other. Though, he was severely heartbroken when I decided to begin dating, exclusively, who would much later become my ex-fiancé. (Or, more appropriately, ‘college fiancé’ as this seems to be disturbingly common. And why not? Get the degree, career, settle down, and that’s that, right? Seems a solid plan.) He was also very much bipolar at that time — which only complicated things. (I was also being stalked by a former boyfriend with whom I didn’t put out, and wished so much for me to that he’d drugged me. Unsuccessfully. I detected it, and ripped him a new asshole. I also called my best friend and stumbled out of the apartment so that he could pick me up. Just because I had done the deed didn’t mean I should do so with everyone, after all. I was choosy then, too.) It was a crazy year.

Either way, my protégé of sorts was surprised by this behaviour, which, I’ll grant you, is a bit more forward than commonly expected. Most girls wait to have sex with some desired partner or boyfriend in a heat-of-the-moment fumbly disaster. (Not always, of course. It can do something besides suck — but mostly, it just sucks.) Sex, never being like we’re foolishly led to believe it is in fiction — page, stage, celluloid and tube — is a weird, dissonant orchestration of out-of-sync rhythm patterns, the crashing and dashing of expectations, and a lot of awkwardness. Wouldn’t you rather suffer through that with a friend and not someone you just happened to have the urge to bone?

My motivation aside, it led me to come to a stark realisation that I … had no idea who this person even was. This circa 2001 version of myself that had her world by the balls, didn’t take shit from anyone, and was in control. Oh, sure, even she wasn’t perfect — but she was on the road to do great, big things. I often wondered where she went, and how I ended up in her place.

And, for whatever explicable reason I can’t begin to fathom, while digging into the warm, fresh, recently store-bought rotisserie chicken — not giving a damn how filthy my hands were, somewhat liking the sensation of my fingers digging into the warm meat, and tearing it from the bone, no matter how much of the sinew lodged itself in my nails — I had a revelation.

I. did. not. care.

It didn’t have to be perfect. I didn’t need it to be clean, or tidy, or exceptionally neat. Who gave a shit if I ate a little bit of cartilage or fat? Got some of the skin stuck under my nails? It tasted so fucking good.

Suddenly, the conversation about the value of sex for human pair bonds in that it creates those feelings of closeness and intimacy via the oxytocin receptors going into overdrive every time an orgasm is experienced — seemed to hijack my brain and drift over into the section that loved ripping warm meat off of bones and I suddenly felt a sort of tapping on my mind’s-eye’s shoulder …

(Erm, just go with it, okay?)

‘I’m ba-a-a-a-ack,’ she seemed to say, that playful smirk that always made me feel as if the world were my oyster. The very same thing that drove me to new heights, to tackle obstacles that took most people down. To ascend to whatever the hell sort of state of being, or knowledge, of understanding, or revelation I wanted to, because I wouldn’t accept defeat. I wouldn’t accept, ‘I don’t know.’ I wasn’t satisfied with, ‘I can’t do that.’

Since I was being called over to finish setting up the chessboard with Mister P and his daughter, he ended up walking over to me in the kitchen, just after my revelation. Completely stunned for the moment, as I shoved my chicken-oil-and-seasonings laden fingers into his mouth, watching his eyes for his reaction.

‘I’m back,’ I said.

Oh, naturally, he had no clue, and I didn’t expect him to, yet. I also couldn’t throw him against the wall, pull down his pants, and take his cock (which is absolutely beautiful, incidentally) into my mouth, letting the rest of his addled mind sort it out later.

There was a child present. Ah, well.

So, he gave the most logical response.

‘Huh? What? From where?’

I didn’t know. I just shrugged, and said: ‘From a very long sojourn.’ It seemed as true as anything else.

Mmm. I’ve not told him how much I like his cock in awhile. How it’s just the right shape, size, girth and texture. He’s supposed to be in chastity, or something. Though, not really just yet. He’s giving me a two-week grace period until the pilot episode is recorded. Mid-June now, it’s looking like. Oh, well. We work with what we’ve got.

I am looking forward to being able to tell him, honestly, that sex is important. The very thing that keeps a couple together. Sex never mattered to me, because it’s not so much an individualised thing. It had, however, been a weapon — for many years, in many instances — used either against me, or learned and honed for waging a war against someone else. I’d quite forgotten that it is also a gift. Something precious, and rare that’s shared between lovers — the very nature of why they are lovers. I recalled this suddenly upon realisation of how deeply I missed him while he was at work the first few days after we’d been regularly kick-starting our sex life. In which I’d had a number of orgasms unabashedly, and without apology. It felt good, and freeing.

Perhaps, I barred myself from sex because of the obvious sway it holds over all of us — myself, included. I didn’t like missing him while he was away. I didn’t like how my mind drifted to wanting to be with him, holding and kissing him, simply being in his presence. It felt weak, and strange.

Huh. Who knew that was love?

And without the sex, it isn’t the same. It’s the sex — that oxytocin-slathered intimacy — that binds a couple together during the tougher stuff. That changes a distant co-habitation into a close, playful, coupling between two individuals delighting in sharing their lives together.

Which would you prefer?

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question. See, even geniuses don’t know everything. (Though, it’s cute that his daughter assumes I do. I’ll just have to step up my game.)

All for now.

(This is a personal journal, after all. I don’t need a perfect conclusion, article-style, fit-for-publication structure every time.)

It doesn’t have to be like this. All we need to do is make sure we keep talking.

Tags: how oxytocin builds intimacy, oxytocin, why couples that have sex are closer, why sex is important