“Does it bother you that there's so much you can’t explore about sex because you’re with me?” A long-term ex-partner once asked me.

“No, not at all. I’m completely happy with what we have.” I answered, almost believing my white lie.

It didn’t feel like a lie. I was enjoying our relationship and didn’t want to be with anyone else. The intimate moments we shared together were warm and tender; I was content. I had no idea that my lying mumbles of contentment would soon become a terrible habitual behavior. However, after weeks of deception, I began pondering whether I wanted more out of sex. 

Slowly realizing my displeasure, it started to consume me. I used to so easily convince myself that my partner was giving me enough, but I found myself questioning whether I was satisfied even while my legs were wrapped around him. Sometimes, I’d sit on the floor with my head between my knees, telling my vagina to just deal with it—as if that would change anything. 

To be clear, for a long time I really did believe I was experiencing the quintessential sex life. I was with someone who looked at me, blemishes and all, and liked what they saw. On thorny days, when my body repulsed me, it was never more loved. There were countless nights when I’d sit down for the after-sex piss, while my ex-partner nonchalantly brushed his teeth right next to me. I knew what we had was great, or at least good enough. 

And in intimacy, knowing was incomparable in value. To know was to be safe and assured in my space and self. I couldn’t puncture that.

***

I was privy not only to the joy of deep understanding, but the fear of wrecking that with candidness. My apprehension to express my concerns stemmed from a fear of changing the “good” parts—by disappointing a partner or asking for too much. Instead I opted to be a fortress, always going for more kissing and touching than talking; I kept what was working secure.

I guess my lying meant I didn't know my relationship like I thought I did. Wholly knowing took being completely honest about my unfulfilling sex life—the one thing I wasn’t comfortable with.

In the 2001 film Ghost World, an outré though pleasant relationship is displayed between characters Seymour and Enid. Both characters share the same grim humor and life view, which leads an artless relationship. Yet as other issues arise in Enid and Seymour’s lives, there are noticeable rifts in their wonderful bond. 

It’s only after Enid has uncomfortable drunk sex with Seymour that she finally feels like she can be honest about her desires for moving forward. It wasn’t the age gap that was holding the relationship back—instead, it was Enid’s avoidance of her late adolescent pain and their inability to communicate well.

“I think only stupid people have good relationships,” Enid says in the film, voicing a sentiment she carries through most of the movie. 

“That’s the spirit,” jokes Seymour.

***

In truth, sexual fulfillment is intimidatingly multifaceted. It’s hard to know what to communicate. All I knew was that I had deep-seated issues with my sexual identity. Having grown up in a priggish household and only realized my queer identity in adulthood, I felt like I was either exploring too much or didn’t know a thing about myself.

The specific intimacy issues were no cuter. I was insecure about my puzzling sex drive and my urge to have sex at ill-suited times. With long-term partners, the monotony of our routine would completely bore me. My high libido, however, was the most irritating crux of my unfulfillment. This frequently sparked futile arguments, in which I rashly equated a lack of a fuck to an absence of giving a fuck about me. 

Managing all these wishes and impulses was no effortless feat, but speaking of them seemed impossible. When the hell do you bring this stuff up? My dilemma was far too heavy to bring up when he pushed me into bed and took my underwear off, and definitely too awkward to mention during a stroll in the park. Even on the occasion of a timely and heartfelt conversation, I felt like I would inevitably be scorned. 

How do you tell someone you care about that you’re unsatisfied?

***

Unluckily for me, my big mouth didn’t wait to think about consequences or the right moment.

One evening, I was staying at my ex-partner’s apartment. He returned from the bathroom after we’d finished having sex—hands washed, light dimmed, phone checked—and then swiftly turned around to fall asleep. There was nothing bizarre about his movements. Yet in that moment, I felt horrified by my predictable reality. It was as if our sex had become a programmed motion, like tying your shoelace when it came undone. 

I absolutely hated it.

I shifted toward the edge of the bed and burrowed my flushed face into the pillow. I forced it to cradle my cheeks as I wept, immediately blaming myself. Why do you always do this? Everything is fine. Don’t be so difficult! You should be happy. Why does sex always have to take up such a goddamn volcanic space in your head?

After almost tearing myself down completely, my puffy face emerged from the pillow with a realization. Was it too much to be dreaming about playfulness and something more? If I was fulfilled, why was I shoving my desire to explore to the back of my mind?

Without even realizing, the words came rushing from my mouth like coins from a falling purse. I woke him up and explained every thought that had been weighing on me. I detailed the emotions I felt when he didn’t want to have sex with me and how angry I was at myself for being fazed by it. That I loved him, but I was bored and sick of feeling like another part of his day. That I felt like I was missing out. 

I spoke and spoke—and he listened. He took it all in and said he needed some time, but we’d figure it out. I was embarrassed by how big of a deal I’d made this when he was only ever going to be kind. Still, more than anything, I was relieved. I felt lighter knowing I’d finally confessed my truth.

***

To be frank about sex can change a good deal of things—I’ve learned that through years of silence. Sexual openness tackles destructive self-patterns and inner criticism when it comes to our actions. Of equal importance, it establishes closer, more intimate relationships. Peeling back the layers and leaping to bring things up can, in the long run, enrich your sexual satisfaction and health. Yet, prior to any dialogue, openness begins with the self—through introspection and seeking advice. 

Toward the end of my relationship, when I repeatedly asked my former therapist, “Is there something wrong with me? Am I asking for too much” she simply told me to trust myself. Every bump in the road with my partner helped me learn more about what does and doesn’t work for me. 

Did I really still think my needs were excessive? Or was it possible that our sexual dynamic just wasn’t working anymore? Upon trusting my intuition, I realized it was the latter.

That’s not to say I’ve answered the question of what yields complete fulfillment, though. Sex continues to bring out feelings of self-doubt and questioning for me. Even upon realizing what I want, sexual communication requires an inherent vulnerability, which can still feel impossible. Vulnerability as a precondition to sexual fulfillment can be incredibly paradoxical in a world of sexual stigma and short-term hookup culture, where it’s seemingly not part of the equation. Oftentimes, I still close up, despite my newfound openness and unlearning of puritanical judgment.

To tell the truth, I’m still trying to figure out how to reconcile the many contradictory truths of my sex life. I don’t have a clue what combination of attributes in a partner will make me completely fulfilled, or if I’ll be happier now that I’m more comfortable in my skin. What I do know is that I’m finally able to unabashedly speak about my libido, wishes to be adored, and need for a little spice—and I'm better for it. And though I'm not quite there with yelling out my true opinions on fruit-flavored lube or missionary as the best position, I’m finally giving openness a shot.