To The Girls Looking For Answers in Warm Bodies and Good Sex


“Come over,” read the text.

She pressed send on a message to an old thang and poured a glass of Chardonnay. The day had been long enough and she needed something to take her mind off the misery.

Long hours at the job, a recent heartbreak, and the loss of her favorite aunt was making life seem pretty bleak lately. She was just going through the motions.

“I’m on my way,” he responded.

She finished the wine before hopping in the shower. As exhausted as she was, she just had to wash the dread from the day off her body before her guest arrived. 

She pulled a new bar of Dove soap from the linen closet and hopped in — crying softly while the water ran over her face. She got out, oiled her body, put on her favorite satin nightie and poured another glass. Not only did she need wine to ease the pain she’d been enduring lately, she needed it to pretend she was okay when her guest arrived. She didn’t feel like answering any questions, or caring if no questions were asked. She just wanted to be wrapped in the arms of someone who would at least pretend to care for her.

PRETENDING, was generous. 

His sex couldn’t solve her problems even if he tried; sex wasn’t created for that. Sure, his warm body would feel good on top of her, but it would do nothing for her unwavering paranoia, or her rising anxiety. His sex couldn’t solve her problems.

She let him try anyway. Signaling to him how she wanted to be handled, he did what he could. Bringing her to a climax sexually, but not emotionally. She was still clinging to life, only this time, in the presence of someone who barely noticed. 

She is her.

Her WAs me.

Looking for an escape from the very rough realities I faced on a day-to-day (particularly in college), I retreated to false exhibitions of love. I wanted to feel needed, supported, desired. I wanted to feel nurtured, honored, loved. But his superficial presence couldn’t do that.

I was left just as empty as I was before sex. Just as broken and depleted, too. When ole boy left and went on about his day, I was left to figure out mine. Still fighting the same feelings and wondering how to pull myself out of it.

Burying my sorrow in the warm embrace of a man who could care less about the day I had or the trauma I was experiencing yielded none of the results I thought it would. Thinking that the penetration would pound away my problems, I found myself stuck in an even deeper web of shit I just couldn’t handle. I retreated to activity I knew no one would resist, simply because I wanted to feel irresistible, or wanted, or loved. But, sex isn’t love; it isn’t therapy; it isn’t healing. Sex is sex. And it cannot fill any of the voids that are currently aching you.

Sex Is not a solution. And IT WAS NEVER CREATED TO BE.

Therapy is. Healing is. Patience is. Grieving is. Friendship is. God is. Love is. And putting yourself in places that honor all those things, is. Sis, sex cannot save you — no matter how hard you try.