Why I Broke Quarantine For Sex
Turns out, I'm willing to gamble my health for a handful of orgasms.
Illustration by Ally Hart
Quarantine has been cockblocking me, but I guess someone had to eventually. Before quarantine began, my confidence was boisterous — bordering on bothersome. My sex life was robust, adhering to a schedule that kept the beast inside me gratified. The thought of lockdown impeding on my needs made me shrivel up inside, fearing the person I would become if I wasn’t watered with enough affection and attention. Living without a consistent, healthy sex life has historically made me a worse version of myself, and I intended to avoid that fate.
So when the first compelling offer of companionship came across my phone screen, I hardly thought twice about pursuing it, regardless of the potential consequences. Bits of my glossy lacquer had already begun to chip away as I passed each day untouched by another’s hand. After only a moment of contemplation, I decided that yes, I am in fact willing to gamble my health for a handful of orgasms. Although I did for a moment cringe at the thought of my tomb reading, “She died in the pursuit of dick.”
That’s how I found myself traversing many miles chasing the sense of myself that was intrinsically linked to my sexuality. I know, I know breaking quarantine for sex is taboo — but wait, it gets worse! I traveled to Hoboken, a beach town in Connecticut, a suburb of New Jersey, and the Hamptons for dick. I literally left the state to fornicate. While I chose to only visit two people I deeply trusted, the inherent risk still loomed over me.
The frequency of these trysts was only a slice of what I was generally used to, and I felt my mindset begin to shift. I knew that I needed sex to function, but I had never stopped to think about why. When I would complain about needing sex to friends who understood this about me, they would counter with, “We need to get you a vibrator” or “Just take care of yourself.” Valid points all around, but when “just taking care of myself” continually didn’t fill the hole in me — or my vagina — I realized I craved sex in my life for more indispensable reasons than simply getting off.
I’m an extrovert, an ENFP for anyone that means anything to. I crave social interaction and interconnectedness. Without attention and feeling really seen by another person, I became disoriented in quarantine about how I saw myself and completely disconnected from my currency in the world, which I had come to believe was rooted in my appearance and impudent personality. When I looked in the mirror, where I once saw olive-flushed curves and full rosy cheeks, I saw a swollen potato with googly eyes blinking back at me. Every time I stepped on a scale, I would squeeze my eyes shut in anticipation only to be shocked I hadn’t gained any weight. My hair felt dull, my eyes not as wide, my ass not as plump. But in the days following my rendezvous, I felt like the unabridged version of myself, every part intact. I was more focused at work, more energized, more compelling to talk to, and more confident.
When “just taking care of myself” continually didn’t fill the hole in me — or my vagina — I realized I craved sex in my life for more indispensable reasons than simply getting off.
This realization reminded me of a conversation with a friend in which I had complained about some part of my body — as women are essentially trained to — and my friend flicked the grievance away, insisting I knew I was attractive to which I responded, “No, mostly I just know other people find me attractive.”
This crystallized in part why I need sexual experiences so frequently. At some point, I had learned to see myself through others' perceptions of me. In many ways, I feel that sex is an extension of confidence. There is no other experience during which you bare yourself so brazenly, opening yourself up for criticism. Sex enforces confidence because it renforces that there is another human that finds you compelling enough to engage in sexual relations. If people I find attractive and interesting still desire to have sex with me, then I must be thin enough, pretty enough, sexy enough.
The other part of my need for sexual experiences is the desire for human connection that goes beyond the verbal into the emotional and physical realms. Someone can tell you you look good a hundred times, and it would still pale in comparison to the smirk that slides across their face when you satisfy them.
Often when people crave sex, it’s not the end result they are after. We’re actually chasing the intimacy, the warmth of skin on skin, the comfort of laying your head on someone’s chest, the laughter while switching positions clumsily, the adoring glances from beneath your body. Sex comes with the beauty of knowing someone inside out, if even for a fleeting moment. And that, to me, is worth the ‘rona risks.
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