*Or to the best of my knowledge, at least I think it did.
Content warning: talk of illness, nausea, low-calorie eating.
I had sex on Wednesday. It was the type of sex where you just fall into it. It starts with some kissing, a little fondling and the next thing you know, you need to fuck. You don’t care what happens to your body, you just know that there’s a deep, visceral need to fuck.
… can someone tell past me that’s reckless behaviour? Because apparently, I do not listen to myself, or my own advice.
In all honesty, before the Wednesday fuckfest, I hadn’t had sex in weeks. After my little stint of masturbation enthusiasm, illness ruined me. 3 weeks of gallbladder pain, a fibro flare with extra hair pain (if you know, you know), nausea, eating so little due to nausea my Fitbit fusses, light sensitivity, and complete exhaustion amongst of the ‘pleasant’ symptoms. It was hell.
And yet within a day of physically feeling a little better, I completely forgot I had been ill and was still recovering. It’s both a handy trait (I don’t remember the year of medical hell a few years ago) and a curse as my inability to remember to pace myself always spanks me on the arse in the most fitting ways.
Thursday I woke up aching, my chest hurt, I’d trapped a nerve in my shoulder, my body felt heavy, and I could have sworn that I was getting ill. Considering I’ve not been anywhere for months, that’s impressive even by my ‘normal’ body standards. I was sad. And moody. And so tired. I even went to bed at 7 pm, but the entire day I could not shake the tired funk that had descended on me.
But I felt it. I directly felt the consequences of having sex and using my energy to orgasm and for a moment I regretted it. “If only I hadn’t overexerted myself/leaned that way/fucked with abandon,” said my ever-critical inner voice.
Do I regret it now? Hell no, I have to take my pleasures wherever I can get them. However, do I regret not realising my Thursday flare was because sex is utterly exhausting both mentally and physically? Yes.
I talk about pacing, knowing your own limits and communication often, but when you’re faced with an itch you know you can scratch right there and then, it’s so difficult to stop and listen to reason. And gosh darn it sometimes you just want to say ‘fuck it’ and well … fuck.