Speaking of casual cuddling: Our contributor Abby Spector, who is double-majoring in English and Feminine/Gender/Sexuality Studies at Wesleyan University, has a confession to make:
It has been exactly a year since I last had sex. I didn’t intend on taking a vow of celibacy. Like belly button lint and shocking celebrity deaths (RIP Jacko et al), it just happened. My libido turned off. Kaput. I don’t miss the bruised hipbones, condom debates, or dirty sheets. Hell, I don’t even miss the whole penis and vagina part. All I want is a sweaty body pressed against mine. Unfortunately, it is hard, daresay impossible, to get passionate cuddling sans sexual intercourse. Believe me. I’ve tried.
I wasn’t always like this. I used to be the exact opposite. Sex was food and I was starving — starving for stimulation and pleasure, maturity and companionship, confidence and assurance. Sex eased my insecurities (or so I thought). In those moments, I didn’t realize I was using intercourse for this purpose. Reflection came post-coital. It could be days, weeks, even months, but the conclusion was always the same — I regretted sleeping with the person.
I have been with seven people. Out of all seven, there is only one I don’t regret. The others weren’t bad. Actually, most of them were quite good. My mind just wasn’t there to enjoy it. I now realize that there are other, less self-depreciating ways to ease my insecurities. Flirting, French fries, and good friends fill my voids.
But there is one gaping hole that my new cohorts can’t fill. No, not my vagina. (For that I invested in a vibrator.) It’s the passionate cuddling that I miss the most. Naked bodies pressed against one another, sharing sheets, and sweat.
Cuddling is usually expected to lead to sleepovers (or at least that’s what they do in the movies). I have never been a big fan of sleepovers. Something about them seems threatening. First off, there is the morning after. Numerous people have dubbed me the most awkward person in the world. Dried drool, bad breath, and a habit of farting in my sleep don’t ease this innate discomfort. More importantly, though, sleeping requires an extreme release. You have to succumb to fatigue. Masks come off, swords are put down, and you enter another state of mind. I have only slept with one of the people I have “slept” with. Not surprisingly, it is also the only guy I don’t regret.
I consider the kind of sweaty cuddling I desire a step before the sleepover. It’s intimate, but not threatening. I am fully conscious while reaping the benefits of being held. It’s soothing. For me, sex was usually a mirage of lust. I desired the feeling of being desired more than the actual intercourse.
Cuddling provides something else. It is a mirage of love. It’s two people wanting comfort instead of carnal pleasure. A good cuddle requires spending time with someone. Nobody is being “used” or objectified. It’s meant to be soothing, with just a hint of sexy.
Fuck forking and scissoring. The only utensil I need right now is a spoon.
Speaking of spooning: Check out our post from earlier today, When Your Booty Call Wants to Spoon.
