It came out of nowhere. In the middle of brunch. Between a bite of avocado and a conversation about the weather. “I would go sleep with people if I were you,” my friend said, a mother of four with a husband who has been built into her life for 25 years.
We all stared at her in shock. She turned red. “Oh no, did I say that out loud?” Yes. You did. And that is where the conversation started.
I understand exactly where that sentence comes from. She, like most of my married friends, met her partner in their early twenties. They grew up together, had children, she loves him, life is stable. But excitement? Surprise? That “wow” feeling? Not so much. And she looks at me, divorced, free, available, and sees a privilege: the ability to vary, choose, get excited.
She is not entirely wrong. At first, it really was like that. After the divorce I did not rush at everything that moved, but I did go out more. And sex, after years in a long relationship, became an event again.
The first time was strange but interesting. The second, who became the first serious partner, was exciting. Then came the next partner, the one I truly fell in love with, and the passion with him was insane and addictive. I was convinced it was the best sex I had ever had. I also remember a quiet sense of superiority. The thought: “I have something they don’t.” I felt young again. Energetic, desired, alive.
But what my friend did not take into account was what comes next: how at some point that happiness runs its course. Because new sex is like a vacation. Fun, exciting, but it does not build a home. Sometimes it does the opposite. After I broke up with that partner I truly loved, and curled up every night with sadness and anger, I was convinced everything would disappear the moment I found myself with someone else in bed. That I could erase him and the stubborn thoughts about him.
Except it was sad sex. Awful sex. Not because the partner was bad, but simply because he was not him. And instead of forgetting? I remembered more. Instead of being filled? The emptiness grew. In this case sex did not heal and did not excite. It only sharpened how rare that connection had been.
After that, it was good again. Then less good. And back and forth. And at some point the fact that you “can go sleep with people” stops being exciting. Mainly because at our age you understand it is almost impossible to find someone with whom there is both connection, attraction and emotion.
I was not offended by her comment. I am not jealous either. But I know one thing now: the fantasy of sexual freedom is always more seductive than its reality. Because while my friend imagines an open buffet of thrills with hot men who look like they stepped out of a firefighter calendar, for us divorced women it is often a dull HR department of dating management interviews with candidates who extinguish your fire, but for very different reasons.
I smiled at her, took a sip of my coffee, and explained that sexual freedom is a bit like buying something on AliExpress. In the picture it looks tempting, shiny and promising to change your life. But when it arrives in the mail, you discover the fabric is scratchy, the size has nothing to do with reality and there is no way to return the product and get your time back.
And sometimes? It is actually better to stay with the old product. Maybe it is not as exciting as it once was, but at least you know it is reliable, does not require relearning the instructions every time and does not fall apart quickly, while you are the one breaking into pieces.