Before I accepted cannabis into my bedroom, my sex life was dependably orgasmic, but nothing that would inspire an entire blog post. I remember those nights a little bit like this: Sitting cross-legged on my squashy kid-snack sofa, my eyelids drooped a bit as I glanced at the time. Harry Potter whizzed over the Quidditch field across the room, and political news droned in my left earbud. It was Saturday night, so when the kids were finally asleep, we turned the TV off. With any luck, we’d get a quick romp before we were both too tired.
Sitting on the bed, I let out a sigh before clicking off my phone. Lube and tissues stood ready, courtesy of Beard Man. Despite the sultry glow of a mood lighting app, I fended off attacks from projectiles in my mind. Did I remember to buy broccoli? Ugh, my thighs are so flabby! Fuck, I forgot to call the clinic. God I hope the neighbors can’t hear my vibrator.
Bedroom Bludgers are the worst.
Weed had already become a regular part of my creative expression and meditation, but I’d held back from adding it to my sex life. Then late last summer, I decided to trust the plant.
Breathlessly, “I didn’t…expect…what was…that?” tumbled from my lips. Glory be! The rumors were true.
I had just had sex while high, and it was fucking great.
Here’s how weed changed my sexual experience: My sense of touch heightened, as though my whole central nervous system was engorged. Warm caresses became blue fire, and my toes actually curled as electricity skittered down my shins. Gentle spasms radiated up my vagina. Climax without direct clit stimulation suddenly seemed possible.
Amid fresh sensations all over, I forgot the clutter in my head. My worries stopped chasing me and I gave myself entirely to my own pleasure. Totally lost in my body, I did not pay much attention to Beard Man during that first time. Oops. It turned out he didn’t mind. Often the king of using understatement to highlight his point, he told me he was watching my face, and he was “not disappointed.”
Hee hee hee.
For me, weed cuts through the bullshit of religious and social expectations surrounding sex that have given me hang ups for years. Embracing my own pleasure, I’m refusing to feel guilty or ashamed. With intention, I disconnect from my task lists and connect with my partner, feeling powerful and vulnerable. Tomorrow I’ll handle phone calls and go to the grocery store. Tonight, a couple of bong rips in, Beard man will remind me that my thighs are luscious, and I won’t even blush.
I am admittedly still paranoid at the volume of buzzing sex toys.