My First Post-Divorce Sex

A hot man, a moonlight summer night ... and intense nausea.

Last week, I told you about the cute, slightly affected man I found on FEELD. Amidst our hot sexting, we were, of course, also talking about when we could meet up for actual sex. I’d told him my burgeoning fantasy in which he would find me reading a book at the hotel bar and offer to buy me a drink. We’d then sit demurely sipping our cocktails and talking, getting more and more turned on by the minute. I’d invite him back to my room, and he’d wait for me to make the first move.

Yet as I walked myself through the fantasy — um, over and over and over again — I discovered that my brain and my body were in two different places. My body was saying “yes, yes, yes, yes, fucking YES!” My brain was more along the lines of “Are you sure this is actually acceptable? I don’t know.” I texted my friends and shared my brainy concerns and they assured me that I was, in fact, single and allowed to have sex with a hot man I had met on FEELD. But of course, they added, I could back out if it didn’t feel right.

I worried about expectations. If I met up with a guy in order to have sex, what would happen if I had a sudden change of heart? It occurred to me that this was yet another instance in which I could just be upfront. I’d already told this guy that he was my first sex app match and that, if we hooked up, he’d be the first person I’d slept with in more than a decade. I decided to also tell him that I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted and that there was a chance we would meet up and I’d change my mind. He said he understood, and that would be totally okay.

Phew.

Naturally, then, we decided to meet up. At the hotel bar. I was a nervous wreck. I put on make-up. I curled my hair. I panic-texted my friends. I went to the bar early because I desperately needed a drink. My friends FaceTimed me to wish me luck and told me to check in later by text. We decided on an emoji code: a cheese emoji meant things were going well.

He texted me that he was on his way. I stared at the pages of my novel, not comprehending anything. I felt like I was going to die. Maybe I really was going to die.

Suddenly, a gravelly voice to my right. “How’s your book?”

There he was, leaning on the bar, studying me. Jesus Christ. He was sexy. I forgot to breathe. Dark, tousled hair. Glasses. Yum.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said, smiling. “You’re stunning.”

He ordered a whiskey; I ordered another wine. I whisked out my phone and texted my friends:

As we sipped our drinks and I hoped that I wasn’t sweating through my dress, I commented that it was a beautiful night. It really was: Clear sky, nearly full moon. He asked if I might like to take a walk. It was a departure from my fantasy, but I was into it. I led us out to a grassy spot right next to a lake. Suddenly I turned to him and said, “Would you mind if I kissed you?” I honestly have no idea where I got the courage to say it; I just remember wanting it, and wanting him to know that I wanted it. I remember the delight in his eyes as he registered I was into him. We kissed.

It was …….. weird.

I mean, it was nice. He was a good kisser. He tasted like whiskey and something else, maybe pot? — but it was also weird. My brain was like: What the fuck are you doing? I felt like I was going to throw up. I tried my best to ignore it.

We sat down on the green under the moon. I was wearing a long, white and green dress, and he started caressing my legs. He slowly moved his hand up. He marveled at how wet I was.

I told him I was getting cold, and he offered me his jacket. "No,” I said. “Climb on top of me and keep me warm.”

Who was I? What was happening? I had no idea. He climbed on top of me and kissed me for a very long time. He spilled his whiskey. I spilled my wine. I told him I was still quite cold. He asked me if wanted him to come back to his room. “Maybe,” I said coyly. Then, more emboldened: “Yes!”

We went back to my room. I remember pulling the key out of my purse and thinking, this is really happening. He walked out onto my room’s terrace, and I laughed and told him I hadn’t come back to the room just to get cold again. He asked me how aggressive I wanted him to be. I told him I didn’t want him to make the first move.

Then I invited him to the bed.

I’m not going to give you the play-by-play of everything that happened after that, but …. it was intense. I was physically very turned on, yet felt emotionally torn, trapped in a cloud of feelings that wasn’t letting me live in the moment. He could actually see me drift into my anxiety in real time, and would say things like “Are you OK?” or “Where did you just go?” or “I’ve lost you again.” I kept worrying, feeling guilty, feeling scared. He asked me multiple times if I wanted him to leave. No. Yet the part of me that had been married for so long was telling me, over and over again and in so many ways, that what I was doing wasn’t okay. That I was being bad. That I was breaking the rules.

I knew I had to charge forward and break them anyway. The only way past was through. So I took him into me, despite the nervousness and the nausea. And I did, in fact, enjoy myself. I know this because after we finished, I thought only one thing, which was: When can we do that again? The first time was always going to be strange, I realized — no matter who it was or when it happened. But it didn’t scare me off. If I’d made it through, I knew the next time would be better. And I wanted that next time to happen as soon as possible.