Kissing Feels Platonic

Rambling thoughts about desire and long-term love

Remember the other week when I lost my sense of taste and all my other senses muted?

Well, they don’t seem to have come back.

Not fully anyway.

Kissing feels platonic.
Touch has lost some of its electricity.

The things that used to send shivers up and down my whole body don’t seem to at the moment and it’s been really hard.

It’s had me questioning everything.

My work.
My relationship.
My presence.

Am I disconnected?
Have I closed my heart without realising?
Am I stressed?
Resentful?
Avoiding something?

If a client came to me and described all this, I’d probably start asking questions about safety. Emotional connection. Unmet needs.

But I don’t feel unsafe.
I don’t feel disconnected.
I ask for what I need and my husband responds.

The reality is…
I adore him.

Even when we’re annoying each other. Even when one of us is grumpy. Even when life is busy and mundane and we’re arguing over who forgot to put the bins out or what’s for dinner.

I adore him.
I am wildly attracted to him.
I want him.
No one else even compares.

Which is what makes this whole thing so confusing.

The desire to connect is still there. The desire to have sex is still there. The desire to be close is still there.

But it’s like my heart and mind have arrived at the party and my body and pussy got lost on the way.

I can access desire in my mind.
Fantasy still works.
Erotic stories still work.
Orgasms are still great.

But everything just feels... muted.

Like someone has turned the volume down and the button needs oiling to turn it up.

It’s frustrating because I know all the tips and tricks. I teach others how to access their desire and pleasure, but it’s like I don’t know what’s happening inside my own body.

Maybe it’s perimenopause…
There are certainly enough clues.

Night sweats the week before my bleed.
Foot cramps.
My libido is definitely not the same as it used to be.

I don’t know.

Maybe it’s that.

Maybe it’s not.

Part of me wonders whether it started with the Sacred Pause.

When my husband and I stopped using sex as a measure of how good our relationship was.
When I stopped performing.
Stopped chasing frequency.
Stopped believing that more sex automatically meant a better relationship.

I spent so long retraining my brain around intimacy that sometimes I wonder if my body got the memo a little too well.

Then there’s the alcohol part.

I stopped drinking over a year ago now.

I wasn’t a big drinker. I wasn’t dependent on it. Giving it up wasn’t particularly difficult and honestly, I don’t miss it.

But I remember reading a post by Ian Callaghan about pleasure and quitting alcohol.

How sometimes when you remove something that has been giving your brain little hits of excitement, reward, celebration and novelty for years, life can feel a bit flat for a while. It’s called anhedonia. Or more simply, a lack of pleasure. As a self-proclaimed hedonist, it seems weird to think I may be lacking in pleasure.

I don’t know enough about the science to explain it properly, but I remember reading it and thinking huh… that makes sense.

Because that’s kind of how life has felt lately. Not unhappy. Not ungrateful. Not broken. Just a little less sparkly than it used to.

Which feels ridiculous to admit out loud.

My entire work is based around pleasure and finding pleasure in all the small things.

And yet here I am sitting on my couch wondering why kissing isn’t sending shockwaves through my body anymore. Is it because we’ve been kissing for so long now that the excitement is gone? Would something new and exciting give me the jolt I think I need?

Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

I sometimes wonder what it might feel like to kiss someone else...
The awkward beginning, heavy with anticipation and possibility. Standing just a little too close wondering who is going to make the first move.
The nervous excitement.
The unfamiliarity of them. The scent of their skin, the warmth of their breath, the taste of someone new.
The tenderness of them cupping your face for the first time.
The way your stomach flips when the intensity starts to build.
The hunger for more as you find a rhythm together.
It makes my mouth salivate and my pussy tingle just thinking about it.

But what if it was exactly the same? Still platonic. Still muted. My body still betraying me.

The thought terrifies me. Because then I'd have to admit this was never about who I was kissing at all.

You see, I’ve never been here before.

My husband and I have been together seven and a half years.

I’ve never reached this point in a relationship, because every other time, I’d already left.

I’d noticed all the things that weren’t quite right. The things they did that annoyed me. The ways we weren’t compatible. The things that were missing. Some of the exact same feelings I’m having now. And back then, using that as the proof I needed to confirm the relationship was over.

In the past I convinced myself I needed to find myself. That I was settling. That there had to be something better out there. Someone better. More exciting. More adventurous. More electric. And sometimes there was… At least until that relationship became familiar too.

Years ago I watched a Netflix series called Newness.

It explored the addictive nature of modern dating. The constant novelty and chasing the intense feelings of the honeymoon phase. And once the characters decided to be in a committed relationship they struggled with boredom, dissatisfaction, temptation and the feeling that there might always be someone better just a swipe away. Someone hotter. Someone more compatible. Someone more exciting. Sound familiar?

I remember watching it and seeing myself in it. My tendency to chase the feeling.

You see, I am addicted to the honeymoon phase. There is something so seductive about newness and getting to know someone.
The butterflies. The anticipation. The wondering. The fantasy. The first kiss. The first time you see each other naked. The conversations that somehow last until 2am even though you’ve got work the next morning. The possibility that this person could be anything. The feeling that absolutely anything is possible.

I also love being discovered. Being seen through fresh eyes. Being fascinating to someone. Being desired. Being wanted. Being chosen.

Sometimes I find myself fantasizing about it. Not because I want someone else. But because I miss the feeling. The rush. The anticipation. The dopamine hit of being desired by someone new.

But then I think about what inevitably happens next.

Because eventually every relationship becomes familiar.

Every first kiss becomes the hundredth.

Every exciting new person becomes someone who leaves their dirty socks on the floor and asks what’s for dinner.

And that’s the part nobody really talks about.

We spend so much time romanticising the beginning of love that we rarely talk about what comes after.

The privilege of being known. The reality of someone seeing you not only in your best moments, but in the darkest times. The comfort of having someone in your corner. The person you call when something exciting happens. or when something terrible happens. The person you build memories with. The person who witnesses your life. The person who chooses you over and over again long after the novelty has worn off.

Maybe that’s why this feels so complicated. Not because I think there’s something wrong with my marriage. But because I’ve spent so much of my life looking for the spark that I never stopped to ask what comes after it.

I miss the electricity. I’m not gonna lie.

But I also know that what I’ve built with my husband is worth so much more than a dopamine hit.

I don’t have all the answers.

I don’t know whether it’s perimenopause. Or the Sacred Pause. Or a year without alcohol. Or simply what happens when two people choose each other day after day, year after year.

What I do know is that my husband still reaches for my hand when we walk together.
He still kisses me every afternoon when he walks through the door.
He still makes me laugh.
He still makes me feel loved.
And I still look at him and think, “Fuck, you’re hot.”

Maybe I’m not meant to solve anything.

Maybe I’m being asked to trust myself. To trust that my body isn’t broken and that desire hasn’t disappeared forever. As cliche as it sounds.

I’m very aware that not every season of life is meant to feel electric. I teach that. I write about that. I remind other people of that all the time.

That knowledge doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the one living it though!

Life, social media and spirituality seem determined to convince us that everything is a lesson. That everything happens for a reason. That if we just look hard enough, we’ll find the meaning in it.

But what if this doesn’t need to mean anything? What if it’s just a season? What if my body is doing exactly what bodies do? Changing. Evolving. Asking to be listened to instead of analysed.

Maybe all I really know is that things feel different right now.

And for now, that will have to be enough.

With love,

Bryony x

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