A reflection on sex in quarantine
Written by
Natalia Dembowska
Image by Thomas Holm
When I think of sex now, after three months of isolation, the first word that pops instantly into my head in fat bold letters is frustration. Never in my life was I this irritated about the constantly intensifying sexual frustration inside of me. There were times of course, when I hadn’t had sex for longer than two months. But this usually happens because of somewhat concrete reasons. I might not put myself out there as much because I’m busy. Maybe I spend more time on friends, school or work. Or perhaps I’m going through a more reflective period. Maybe I’m PMSing. Whatever it is, there is a reason - internal, external, implicit or explicit. Something’s up. Now it’s corona and it’s just weird.
The uncomfortable part about everyone speaking up about how they feel during the quarantine is that we know we have it best. Those who are granted the opportunity to work remotely from home and isolate with their family, are blessed. Each time I hear another story on the news about hospitals collapsing and people grieving I remind myself of the gratitude for my comfortable life, which others may not even dream of. It is therefore indisputable that whatever side effects of isolation we might experience, they are far behind the casualties, as well as the socio-economic and governmental issues corona imposed on us globally.
Nonetheless, being in isolation sucks. We can try not to be a bunch of little bitches but the truth is that this quarantine has a deep impact on the majority of us - emotionally, psychologically, sexually. Practically from day to another we changed our lifestyle completely and for an undetermined amount of time. What at first was just scary, is now our daunting (and already weirdly familiar) reality. The pre-corona life feels almost like a dream - a chance we didn’t take, a gift we didn’t appreciate. And in the midst of all our regrets lay the blowjobs we didn’t give. The cancelled Tinder dates. And all the beautiful people we were scared to approach at the club.
The lockdown imposed a whole new reality on us and this includes sex. Perhaps some understand that in the context of a pandemic getting laid less is not the most important thing in the world. But it is an integral part of our lives and such changes have a profound impact on us. Especially those who are not locked in a sex cave with their partners. Those who are stuck back in their family homes. With thin walls.
In my pre-corona life I lived in Amsterdam where I was out most of the time. I led a very satisfying and scandalous lifestyle, in which there was plenty of time for dinners, cocktails and sexual escapades. I had sex every other day and could masturbate in every single room of my apartment. Every day I woke up breathing the air into my lungs, grateful to know such great people, live in such a lively beautiful city and do what brings me joy in life.
A few months ago I was walking while typing on my phone and I hit my forehead very hard against a sign that I didn’t see. The shock of change, uncertainty and dullness hit me in the face just like that. One day I was at home, drinking a cosmo and two days later I was in my parents’ house playing Animal Crossing. I felt withdrawals of all the pleasant things that made up my reality. The interaction with people I love. Social gatherings over wine and food. Smoking in the coffeeshops with friends and the staff. Doing my own groceries. And sex. I started really missing sex. To the point of having vivid flashbacks at family dinners. Weird as fuck.
The thing about missing sex is that I don’t miss just the act. Although I am not in a committed relationship, for the past few months I was seeing a guy regularly. Our relationship is based purely on sex but it was a really pleasant and friendly experience and I miss that whole package. I miss preparing to see him. I miss the effort; choosing the outfit and wondering how many times he’s already seen me in it. Whether my shoes fit with that dress. Whether I still haven’t ran out of perfume. I miss spending my last student cash on taxis, shaking from excitement to get to his as soon as possible. I miss the look on his face as I entered the room. I miss every first kiss of every night, each more delightful than the previous one.
I miss the steaming morning coffees on the terraces of cafés, accompanied by a cigarette and a book. I miss looking up from my reading onto the water in neighbouring canals reflecting the rays of sunlight; reminiscing about the previous night of great sex. I miss walking back home smiling, looking into the window of the tram and laughing at my messy face.
But let’s be honest - I really do miss the act a lot. I miss the touch. The gentle touch of caressing his skin in a dim light but also all the scratching, biting and slapping. I miss squeezing his hand when he was on top and I was losing my shit. I miss staring into his eyes while I blow him. I miss his hands on my ass when I was on top. And I miss how they wandered around my body later, while we drifted to sleep listening to music.
The first two weeks were the worst. Longing for sex consumed me. I was revisiting all my previous lovers in my mind as it grew freakier and freakier. Despite this mental gymnastics masturbation became dull and sad. There was no spark. I realised that the batteries in my vibrator were dying. At first I was relieved that my electric-powered friend was to blame for my weak orgasms. Upon some reflection I got even more sad as I didn’t know how to casually drop these small specific batteries onto my mom’s shopping list. I’ve been here two months now and I still masturbate a few times a day. Most of the time it’s just not too satisfying. At first I didn’t know what it was. Then I realised I missed the intimacy, the human touch. I realised I missed it more than orgasms. And I missed someone else touching me. Not my own boring hands.
I tried so many things. As sadly all my current sexual relationships are too complicated for simple sexting, I visited sex chat rooms. It was the thrill I needed but only lasted two days. I also tried masturbating outside, in the forest. That was nice too but it started raining just a few days after I tried it. One day when I woke up at 3AM because I slept on top of my arm and it went numb. I thought about touching myself with that hand because maybe - just maybe - it would feel like another person is taking care of me. I went back to sleep but the memory woke me up in the morning, making the grey, corona air even more dense.
I feel like we spend a lot of time trying to be independent of each other. We make sure we don’t fall for people we have sex with, we don’t lose our head for a crush. We try to protect ourselves and function as solitary machines, dependent solely on internal factors. We don’t want to be needy and we don’t want to need. This is reinforced by our culture, music, TV, social media. It’s cool when you have cash, you don’t trust bitches and you entirely focus on yourself. Especially when it comes to dating. Don’t be a bitch ass and don’t admit you care. Feelings are not cute anymore, sorry. Although it is not entirely flawed, this attitude is clearly dystopian. Now more than ever, in the midst of the social distancing madness, I hope we will appreciate how much we actually need each other. That a smile and a handshake have magic to them. That people matter and we do depend on each other and that is okay. It’s great actually. It’s a delightful network of affection, help and inspiration. A source of motivation and cooperation.
During the lockdown, the lack of sex as a deficiency of human connection showed me that it all comes down to that. Whether it’s basic politeness, friendship or a romantic liaison, it all comes down to openness, kindness and mindfulness. We run away from each other in the fear of getting hurt, hurting first, as a form of prevention. But we can stop participating in this race and live a life that matters. A life free from the layers of pretence, fear and insecurity. The sweet intimacy. Giving without expectation of receiving. Caring without punishment. What started as a hunger for sex became a social awareness. Thus, what I long for the most during this quarantine is human interaction, not orgasm. Who would have thought this realisation is emancipating for a young modern woman? I spent most of last year being on the exact opposite of the spectrum. My friends and I explored our sexualities and indulged in performing a constant feminist disassociation between sex and love. Men? Who needs them? Well, turns out I do. I gladly do need men and women too. Not just for sex but for other things. Like letting someone into the line in the supermarket. Smiling at a shy stranger. Going to the market with a friend. Helping a coworker with a love dilema during a cigarette break. The lack of sex permeated the truths on humanity that I forgot about in the chaos of daily goals and future projections.
Sex is not just a pleasure, it’s not a high-inducing substance. It’s a sweet and meaningful layer of life, just as important and profound as others. It does not have to be impersonal and uncommitted to be liberating. There is no sex without some sort of intimacy. It doesn’t have to play the primary role in every act but a seed of it is planted in each intercourse. And no matter how many times I’ve sworn I don’t need anyone, intimacy is what I miss the most in isolation and I hope we will come back to life fully aware of our collective power.
Natalia Dembowska is based in Amsterdam currently studies linguistics and media. You can find her work on Instagram aswell as her portfolio.