As some of you know, I love to sing. Occasionally, I’ll share some of them with my Podcast listeners, but I try to keep that pretty strictly about D/s — or, if someone requests — my artistic projects. (I’ve not forgotten you, Arnaut!)

But every now and again, something comes along that magically incorporates everything. Ladies and gents, Laura Branigan’s 1984 ‘banned-in-Boston’ music video, ‘Self Control’.

Okay, yeah, so, I know what you’re thinking: is that the Phantom of the Opera? Why is he here? And, OH, MY GOD, DID HE JUST … ?

Yes. Yes, he did. (And for you lazy asses who have NO idea what’s going on there, WATCH THE FRICKIN’ VIDEO.)

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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.

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I guess due to Mister P’s outburst earlier this evening, that we’re evidently taking a break from our kink. I can’t say that I’m entirely surprised, since I have seen it coming for awhile now — just wasn’t sure how to interpret, process, or phrase it. I’m still not; but writing is a wonderful way for me to better understand my own thoughts, and reach some kind of understanding. So, let’s begin at the beginning — since it’s typically the place to start.

Somewhere around February, our kink took a dive. Why? Maybe it was related to my getting my audio drama back online, and preparing to launch that ten-years-in-development project. Maybe it was his taking more hours at work. Maybe it was our nigh constant traveling throughout the month. Or maybe … it was something unexpressed, that had been growing for awhile. Maybe it took watching a powerfully obviously femdom Japanese film called Moonlight Whispers; though it was released a decade ago, it’s shockingly current. And in the end, the real take-home message seemed to be ‘kink always wins’. (To better understand that phrase and its full meaning, pick up the film. You won’t be disappointed.)

What did I realise? Something I had already known, and said a few times before, but eventually somewhat dropped and allowed to fade into the background — because it’s too complicated, or otherwise painful(?) to confront head-on:

I don’t like fake control.

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Sex.

Man. The power it holds over us human beings is pretty phenomenal, isn’t it? While it has a greater physical impact upon men, it has an equally emotional one on the fairer sex (and, of course, some men as well). So the intensity, and the need, is quite equivalent, but expressed very differently — and with enough overlap to create the dance between the sexes we all know well. The truth is, there’s a lot of research that says we’re basically serial monogamists as a species; while some of us can certainly hack forever, we may not be expected to do so consistently.

And, yep, that means just what you think it does: when she’d rather read, and you’d like to … erm, ‘make use’ of your own ‘reading material’ — it doesn’t mean the honeymoon’s over completely and eternally — but the infatuation is. While it’s a rather sad thing to mourn, and I’m happier in general knowing that my fiance’s orgasms are under my control, these blips on the sex-dar are pretty normal — and very human.

Once you’ve come to accept that, what the hell do you do? It’s tricky, honestly, because what I’m about to tell you proves a real test for most couples, and explains a good portion of the rising divorce rate over the last 30 years. When both partners decide against ‘forcing’ the sexual chemistry back into their relationship, they tend to ‘let each other be’ — sometimes entering a no-sex spiral that lasts for months. Or years. What began, ‘Not tonight, honey. I really want / need / have to X, Y, or Z,’ became a lower expectation of sexual interest, which then became a decreased need, and the forming of a habit and entirely different dimension of the prior sexual relationship. This is typically how, and why, couples that were once engaging in a healthy, active sexual relationship have managed to dry up and go celibate for years.

So, what the fuck happened? A number of things. Habits are tough to break, and a respite does not equal a permanent sexual lull. There are a lot of dependent factors, but also some ways to avoid the major pitfalls — if you know what to look for and have genuine compatibility.

Hmm. Speaking of lulls and genuine compatibility, my fiance’s getting home soon. While I feel this is no doubt a very important post to be making, I think it’ll have to wait.

Keep your eyes peeled. And in the meanwhile, ask questions. You know I love those.