I Bet Freud Would Have a Lot to Say About My Sex Life

The fear of sex isn’t a lack of desire. It’s an excess of memories.

Sex should just be pleasure, right?

You put a little bit of this into that, feel that good thing, and that’s it. Let’s move on to the next thing. Too bad the brain likes to stick its nose where it’s not wanted.

“Oh look, you’re turned on? Let me just remind you of that time when… oh, the mood’s gone? Sorry about that.”

Fucking brain.

Have you never understood how you can be in the middle of a hot make-out session, with a hand sliding in that promising direction, and suddenly, your body freezes as if you’d seen a ghost?

Well, you didn’t see a ghost — you just felt one. One that lives in your head and loves to make an appearance precisely when you’re about to enjoy life.

Freud would have loved me. I can imagine him sitting in his armchair with that white beard, scribbling notes while I describe how I can get wet from a simple intense look, but then panic when someone holds my neck. “Interesting… tell me more about your mother.”

Fuck off, Sigmund. My mother has nothing to do with this. Supposedly.

It’s hard to explain to people how it’s possible to be sexually active and, at the same time, carry a trunk of trauma hidden under the bed. “What do you mean you’re afraid? Didn’t you sleep with that guy from Tinder…