Zoloft

We’ve just finished dinner, settling on the couch to watch history in real time; the latest drop of Vox’s “Explained: Coronavirus.” I realize the screen is positioned incorrectly, and rise to situate it. As I do, my ass enters my partner’s view.

He grabs my hips and utters in a low tone, “Let me kiss it. Just once.”

Nothing about this evening is sexy, but my partner’s desire remarkably rises above a full belly, disaster, and the brink of apocalypse—nothing can sink his relentlessly hard cock.

I let out a noise of consent, and he rolls the bottom of my slip dress up. He dips below me to kiss my pussy from behind. At first I feel very little aside from the soreness in my lower back growing from my awkward position. I hold onto the screen, arching my back more, and try to accept the work being done to me. Soon, he gets me wet, and I begin to focus more on the sensation than the position, begin to lean into it, sink into his face.

When I’m thoroughly aroused, I step my legs apart to straddle his. He takes this signal to pull his pants down. I hover over his cock with my wetness for a moment, before sinking onto him. I fuck him like that for a bit, but I feel so alone, staring at the paused tv screen, so I get off of him, and walk to my room.

I return with my large, heavy, floor length mirror, my small biceps taut carrying its weight. I position it carefully against the wall, watch myself glide backward and sink back down on him.

I’m suddenly intensely connected to the moment, to the sex, to myself. I see my pussy in a new way, lips spread and inner labia exposed, blooming petals, encapsulating his cock as I maneuver up and down on him. I’m glistening inside, and I can see his cock shining each time I rise up on it. 

It’s like this a lot now—not that I haven’t always enjoyed the increased sensory experience of watching sex in a mirror—I have to do more to connect to my sexual pleasure. It’s as if my clit donned a helmet rather than a hood when I started taking antidepressants.

Sex on Zoloft™ 

Since I started taking meds, sex often feels more like a friend in town I’m obligated to entertain than the physical compulsion it used to be. After barely surviving several extremely frustrating oral sessions in which my gracious, patient lover went down on me for no less than an hour, to no avail, I’ve taken to reaching for my vibrator sooner than later during every single sex session. Basically, I give up before beginning. There’s an inherent laziness to knowing I can’t cum on my own. I’m the ultimate pillow princess, very rarely climbing on top. But when actively engaged in sex, like tonight, I seem to snap into myself. 

And so, I watch his cock sparkle with my wetness. The profound stir and aching desire to be fucked left me when I started the pills, but when I actually get down to business, I don’t have trouble getting wet. He likes to pause, tell me to “listen to it.” One day, somewhat fresh on Zoloft, I smoked the last cigarette in my pack and just never went back to the bodega to buy more. No more urge to smoke (cigarettes were a cruel robber of lubrication in my past) but also, no more urge for sex. Life is sacrifices, striking bargains, I tell myself. 

Tonight, I rise from his cock once again to grab a toy, a soft pink vibrator that has a low, steady pulse. Cumming on top feels different. I clench his cock, doubling over, and feel his hands grabbing my hips, ready to unleash his cum along my spine. I always feel an odd sense of accomplishment after sex. Like I did something good for him, for our relationship. 

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Sex before Zoloft™

Prior to June 2019, sex was my religion. I studied it, devoted—I’d orbit around my need, a need that felt greater than myself. Being desired was the only thing that fueled me, sex the culmination of my grasp at peace and power. I’d line my eyes with thick, liquid liner, and wear perfume strangers complimented. My body curved in such a way it would elicit howls when I let clothing hug it. I’d fake confidence that fooled most and I’d chainsmoke, loitering on curbs and in bar backyards, always reeling on the brink of some perceived slight or tragic end with my latest fling. Always looking for my next victim, my next savior. 

My friend sent an image of a woman tied to a stake, lighting the cigarette in her mouth from the flames beneath her and I’d never seen anything more me. I lit fires. I’d happily burn. I’d fight, I’d fuck, and I’d smolder with rage and desire. My hatred for men was matched only by my desire for them, my desire to be desired by them. It became hard to distinguish if my aim was to destroy them or to destroy myself.

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