I haven’t had sex in two years, but I’m ready to end my dry spell

How I Do Itsex life

This week we hear from Sophie*, a 36-year-old who hasn’t had sex for two years.

Sophie, who is straight, was in long-term relationships throughout her 20s, but after splitting up from her partner, a string of disastrous one-night stands led to an extended spell of accidental celibacy.

She says: ‘I never intended to go this long without sex, it just sort of happened. Previously, I’d only ever had gaps for a couple of months.

‘I know that it’s better to not have sex, rather than have a drunken session with a stranger I know I’ll regret, but it’s getting a bit ridiculous now.’

The PR exec from Birmingham admits though that she rarely goes on dates. She says: ‘I find dating apps so depressing. I’ve been through it all: ghosting, unsolicited d*ck pics, negging. And don’t get me started on Hinge’s “most compatible” feature.

‘If I matched with a pleasant, funny guy, I’d happily go on a date with him, and maybe eventually it would lead to sex. But I’m not sure he exists.’

Without further ado, here’s how Sophie got on this week…

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Thursday

Something strange is happening. I’ve recently come off the pill, and my sex drive is through the roof.

The last time I had sex was in 2022, which seems shocking when I write it in black and white.

It was with a guy I met at a friend’s bbq. I’ve forgotten most of the details, but he was handsome and funny, and well, I was drunk. We had fun, but the line of coke he’d snorted just before led to the notorious ‘pilly willy’ and it didn’t last long.

So, after a bit of spooning I did my usual, and got an Uber home in the early hours. If I’d known it would be so long until I next had sex, I might have stayed a while.

I decided to come off the pill because the depressing fact is, there’s no incentive to take it and I keep forgetting. I’ve been on it since I was a teenager, so I’m intrigued to see what a hormone-less cycle is really like.

And it seems the first side effect is having sex on the brain.

For the past two years, of course, I’ve been horny, but a session with my bullet usually does the trick. But now, all I can think about is sex. It’s so bad that as I attempt to work from home, I have to go and have an emergency wank – it ends up being my first of three ‘self-care’ sessions that day.

Friday

It’s one of my best friend’s birthdays tonight, and I can’t wait to have some drinks, talk nonsense, and have a dance.

As is often the case, I’m the only one of the group that’s single.

When I split up with my ex-boyfriend, it was brutal, but I always assumed that after a period of mourning, I’d be onto the next.

Only, it just hasn’t happened for me. I think it’s partly because there are less single, available men in their 30s, but I’m different now too.

My last relationship was more bad than good – my ex-boyfriend was often verbally abusive and my confidence was in tatters by the time it ended. It took me a long time to heal, and I know now that I won’t settle for anything less than I deserve. I just can’t be that miserable again.

But I also wonder if I’m scared of getting hurt – and whether that manifests in me being overly picky. Because I haven’t had so much as a situationship in the last few years, let alone anything even verging into relationship territory.

We have a fun night out and thankfully I never feel like the odd one out. The good thing about having friends in long-term relationships means they’re not going to be all over each other on the dancefloor – they’re way past that. Instead, we dance around like idiots, before tumbling into a takeaway for cheesy chips. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of nights like these.

Saturday

I stayed over at my friend’s last night, and I wake up, climb into her bed and debrief the night while her husband makes us tea.

We’re both horribly hungover, and I say only a greasy breakfast will make it better – but my friend has another solution. ‘I need to get laid today,’ she says simply.

I suddenly have a pang of jealousy that I don’t have a partner (or even a f*ck buddy) to have lazy hungover sex with. The horn-over is real, and even worse when you’ve only got a vibrator to satisfy your urges.

Eventually I drag myself out of bed and head back home, where I meet up with another friend, who has a three-month-old.

There are lots of benefits to being single, and one of them is that it’s really made me question whether I want to have children, or not.

If I’d met a guy at university, for example, I’d have probably jumped head first into marriage and kids, without thinking too much about it. It’s just what you do.

But when you’re single in your 30s it really forces you to think about it. Do I want kids so much that I’d freeze my eggs? Would I ever go it alone? And, would I really want to give up this life of independence in order to do so? Maybe it makes me sound immature, but I like going out, eating dinner at nice restaurants, and travelling when I want to. The honest answer is, I really don’t know if I want kids.

What I do know, is that parenting looks really, really hard. Every mum I know is always exhausted, and honestly, they’re not great adverts for motherhood.

Sunday

I’m awful in my own company, and often make so many plans, I never have time to just do nothing. Today is a clear example of that, as despite having had a busy weekend so far, I’m off to meet a friend for a Sunday roast.

I don’t know what came over us, but the red wine was flowing, and it didn’t stop. By mid-afternoon, we were absolutely hammered, and that’s when I spotted a handsome guy at the next table.

I am not the type to approach a man – I do not have the kind of confidence – I take the tried and tested stare-at-them-until-they-notice tactic. However, fuelled by Dutch courage I threw caution to the wind and marched on over.

His name was Sam*, he was handsome, with curly hair, and smiling eyes. He asked lots of questions, chatted about his family and seemed really, well, normal.

By the time we were leaving, nobody needed to say it, we were going home together.

I’d previously sworn of sex with strangers – it’s never very good and I’m always filled with shame after – but something about Sam felt different. He was holding my hand on the bus home, chatting away as though we’d known each other for years. I remember thinking that any onlooker could easily think he was my boyfriend.

Back at mine we had solid 7/10 sex. I faked the first orgasm, but the second was very real. If I had any concerns that I might have forgotten some moves, I needn’t have worried – and not to brag, but I give great head.

After two long years, having sex felt pretty amazing. There’s nothing quite like the real thing.

The only issue was that we made one stupid mistake: after round one, the condom came off, and when we went at it again, we didn’t put a second on. I wish men would be a little more concerned about wearing protection. I always seem to be the one asking about ‘supplies’ or rummaging around to find a condom.

After sex, we fell asleep cuddled up against each other. To be honest, the thing I miss most about being in a relationship isn’t the wild nights of passion, it’s the non-sexual intimacy. The stolen hugs and forehead kisses you only get from someone who actually loves you. And while tonight was great, it’s never going to compare with sex with someone you have an emotional connection with.

Monday

Sam left early to get to work, and I drag myself into the office, half drunk, half asleep, and attempt to act like a normal human. Of course, I text my girls’ group chat to let them know I’ve done it, the drought is over. Texts of ‘congratulations’ and ‘yay you had sex!’ come flooding in.

I head to the pharmacy at lunch to get the morning after pill, and I’m relieved that the female pharmacist is polite, and totally non-judgmental.

Sam* texts me saying he had a great night. I reply saying the same, and that I’d like to see him again.

But by the evening, hours have passed and Sam hasn’t replied… something tells me he’s not going to.

Tuesday

The inevitable has happened: I’ve had sex, and now I’ve got thrush. Despite the fact that I’m thrilled I’ve finally had sex again, my vagina isn’t.

I spend the day at work awkwardly shuffling in my chair, trying not to do some X-rated itching and dashing off to the toilet to apply copious amounts of Canesten.

I try to distract myself with work, but it’s no use. By mid-afternoon I feign a headache and get the hell out of there, so I can suffer in peace.

I check my phone before I go to bed and see that Sam has read my message, but he hasn’t replied.

Wednesday

I wake up and thankfully, my pH balance seems to be returning to normal. But, still no word from Sam, and I’m annoyed. Even the nice guys aren’t actually nice. The older I get, I wonder if I’ll just spend my life being happy for other people, reaching the milestones I never get to achieve.

Sick of feeling sorry for myself, I decide hit the gym. Lifting weights and working up a sweat makes me feel strong – physically and mentally.

Back at home I binge watch Nobody Wants This (Adam Brody has my heart) and tuck into some M&S cookies, and think about the past few days I’ve had.

In just one week, I’ve spent time with amazing friends, danced like nobody’s watching (or at least, I hope they weren’t) and had some pretty great sex with a hot guy – and I was the one brave enough to make the first move, something I’d never have thought possible a few years ago.

It might not have ended in love – or anything even remotely like it – but I definitely had fun, and isn’t that what life’s all about?

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