Those Fucking Hormones

Lately, in addition to tanning, working out, and masturbating to pass the time, I’ve been reading books that reaffirm what I’m doing to help me maintain my sanity as I try to remain celibate. Their covers are usually bright pink and bear names like “Better Single Than Sorry,” and “It’s Called A Break-Up Because It’s Broken.” Cute, right? And while they certainly ain’t Shakespeare, they keep me from texting boys (one of Single Allie’s biggest vices) so that’s a good thing.

The one I’m currently plowing through is called “Be Honest, You’re Not That Into Him Either,” and it was written by a sex therapist named Dr. Ian Kerner. It’s actually pretty funny. He talks a lot about sex (my long-lost friend), breaking down the emotional and biological reasons as to why women and men internalize it differently.

In light of my admission yesterday that I keep a list (and a rather long one, at that) of all the people I’ve been with, that got me thinking. One reason I’ve had so many partners, with so few regrets, is because I think I can fuck like a man. By that, I mean I can seemingly separate my mind from my body and allow the latter to enjoy getting it on without the former getting in the way. I’m not saying I don’t have morals or a conscience, or anything like that. But compared to some women I know, I find it much easier to have sex with someone without forming an attachment to them. Or do I?

According to Dr. Kerner, my attempts to treat sex as merely a physical act are in direct conflict with my biological makeup. Apparently, us humans produce a hormone called “oxytocin,” and when released, this shit can actually make you experience feelings of bonding with the person you just slept with. Both men and women have it, but here’s where it gets more complicated: the female orgasm can bring it out and when it does, it makes us want to cuddle. It doesn’t always affect men the same way. Sometimes, it can just make them sleepy. Ain’t that a bitch? Talk about the true battle of the sexes...

I don’t think I have to tell you that with sex, getting off isn’t always guaranteed. However, it’s usually more likely to happen for a man than it is for a woman. If you consider the act of intercourse itself, it can only begin when the guy is ready (as indicated by his shit-eating grin and the boner he keeps poking you with) and it has to end when that erection is gone. A lot of the time, it’s his climax that makes the little guy turn into an even littler guy. For women, however, the big finish is a lot more elusive; it takes practice, patience and communication to make it happen. So when we do finally have an orgasm, and we get a hit of that sweet oxytocin, we automatically feel a sense of attachment to the person who gave it to us. So if I’m reading this right, our bodies make us to want to be in a relationship with the person who just fulfilled our needs. Guess I never got that memo. Or perhaps I did but it went straight to my spam folder.

But if that’s the case, why is it possible for guys to just love ‘em and leave ‘em so easily? That’s where our evolutionary traits come into play. Says Dr. Kerner:

“Men, so the theory goes, are driven to spread their seed to as many willing recipients as possible and are thus biologically inclined to be promiscuous…Women, ostensibly seeking to further the race, search for a single, strong, provider. Sex, under the female scenario, is more a means to an end.”

For us, it’s not just about the orgasm. It’s also supposed to be about closeness and an emotional connection. So what the hell happened to me, then?

Warning: there’s an Allie B. Epiphany approaching.

I guess that all this time I might have been deluding myself just a tad. When I say goodbye to a man I’ve been intimate with, in the back of my mind I think I’ll never hear from him again and I tell myself that’s okay. My best friend RK has a mantra: “hope for the best, expect the worst. That way you won’t be disappointed.” So with respect to that maxim, I convince myself I don’t care, and after awhile I buy into my own bullshit. But the truth is, if I stopped to think about it, there have definitely been times when I have cared, I just refused to admit it. By denying myself the attachment that my very own hormones want me to desire, I’ve racked up a lot of experiences absent of the emotions that makes sex the incredible thing that it is.

Now I don’t mean to get all philosophical on your asses, but in pondering the question “why are we here?” the only answer I can think of is love. When you’re in love, and I mean the real thing, not just lust coupled with a sense of excitement, there is no feeling greater than existing in that state…except perhaps having an orgasm with the person you’re in love with.

So while casual sex can be fun, and I’ve certainly had my fair share of climaxes as a result of it, I’ve been doing myself a disservice by mentally distancing myself from my partners after the act. I’ve been so adamant about protecting my heart that I’ve built up walls my mind and body are constantly trying to break through. Don’t get me wrong, a one-night stand with a David Beckham look-alike can be fulfilling in it’s own right. That’s a challenge that results in instant gratification. And sometimes, everyone needs that. But wouldn’t I rather wait to have sex with the David Beckham look-alike that cares about me as much as I want to let myself care about him?

Ugh. This is making my brain hurt. But so it goes here in Celibate World. I guess three months without sex really gives you a chance to think about all the nuances of intercourse without actually having it. I’m not saying that when this is all over, I’m never going to have casual sex again. It’s sort of a part of adult, single life and sometimes, you just want to bone. But thanks to Dr. Kerner, I know that as hard as I may try, it’s impossible to really cut off my heart from my vagina. So I think instead of protecting myself from getting hurt by a one-night stand, I should try protecting myself from the one-night stands for a little while. Unless, of course, David Beckham calls.

xo