The Year of Denial

I feel like 2022 was a bit of a hodge-podge, but within its days a few themes emerged.

It was the Year of the Doctor: I got dealt a hand of illness, allergies, pandemic disease, pre-cancerous skin issues, gall bladder infection, and intense headaches. I saw my GP, my GYN, my dermatologist; I was administered medications, vaccinations, lifestyle strictures, and therapeutic massage; I had an unexpected hospitalization, a recurrence of severe migraines, and re-started massage therapy. I did the best I could with the cards I had.

It was the Year of the Book: I read 187 books this year — more if you count the omnibus editions (3 novels by one author bound in one book; that kind of thing) I read from as individual novels — and have a TBR pile for 2023 that stacks hundreds high.

It was also the year of NO SEX.

Yes. That’s what I said.

NO SEX.

And I feel like I should should be saying that AA-fashion. Like I should clear my throat and stand up among my fellow gathered unsexed brethren and say, “Hi. My name is Feve, and I’m a no-sex-a-holic.”

Which…

For my readers who kink to denial, the idea of being on the other side of my NOPE is probably slightly sexy.

My husband, for some strange reason, seems to think that *I* — regardless of all my “no thank you”s — am sexy.

But I haven’t felt sexy this year. Not in the least.

(…not much, anyway. I had my moments.)

And even though my pelvic floor therapy seemed to ‘work’ (in that it eased the tension I was carrying and made the possibility of penetration become… well… a possibility), I found that getting into any kind of mood that was not purely functional¹ once said therapy was finished was just NOT happening.²

And then all of a sudden it was Thanksgiving.

Then Christmas.

And after the clocks ticked over onto 12:01³ on January 1, I realized…

OH. We didn’t have sex this year.

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And when I say “sex” I mean PIV penetrative sex.

So it would be more accurate to say we didn’t have intercourse this year.

Which means that for me, it was the Year of The Doctor and the Year of the Book.

But for my spouse, it was the Year of Denial.

Not orgasm denial, exactly. (Though the orgasms I gave⁴, I mostly ruined.)

More like denial of access.

I snatched away his access to my snatch.

*laugh*

And so now I’m like… Where do we go from here?

To bed, maybe.

?

Though I admit… On some level, the idea of continuing No Sex For You ’22 has appeal. (‘You’ being mi esposo fabuloso.)

But maybe I will tweak it to be More Orgasms For Me ’23. 😀

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Revelations is a new meme hosted by Molly Moore. The prompt/theme this first week of January is Dear Diary. I’m not much of a diarist, but taking a cue from Molly’s own take on the topic, I looked at the bit she wrote about her year-in-review and thought, “I might be able to do something with that too…” 🙂

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¹You know what I mean, right? The maybe if I give myself an orgasm I’ll finally get to sleep kind of functionality.

²This had more to do with the fact that I had surgery immediately after my therapy was concluded and then had to recover from said surgery and then get on with life. And less to do with the pelvic therapy itself. In fact, the lack of interest/ability had nothing to do with the therapy itself. And yet…

³But not ACTUALLY at 12:01. Because at 12:01 I was asleep. Some people ring in the new year, others jump into the new year. Me? I sleep into the new year. It’s my Old Lady tradition.

⁴I gave him one for Christmas. Only it wasn’t really *for* Christmas. It was just that I said, “Would you like a Christmas cuddle?” on Christmas Eve, and then the cuddling got a bit handsy on my part. (I’m good with my hands.) 😉