The Ups and Downs of My Lesbian Libido

I like the word libido for a number of reasons. I also like the word mojo. Both of these words bring a smile to my face for several reasons. Not only do they both have an interesting sound that makes the words sing in my ears like a nursery rhyme, but these words also conjure up memories of sleepless nights wrapped in curves so soft that I never wanted to leave the bed.

There were moans and whispers complete with shadows in candlelit rooms, where arms and legs embraced a warmth so primal, so instinctive, that I lost myself for hours and days in what I am certain is my truest purpose on earth, to love and be loved, in the flesh, in the mess, with hair flying and hot lips eagerly searching for acceptance in a world gone mad most of the time.

I am happy to announce that after a long drought of about two years, my libido has finally returned, roaring back to life. Who knew I would ever lose it. I would have never guessed it could happen to me. As it turns out, I think it drowned in sadness for awhile, got lost in despair over a terrible breakup.

I allowed my libido to be defeated by what seemed like a failure to me. How many more times could I trot it out, expecting the best, undressing myself, taking off all my armor for another woman, only to have them laugh at me, or worse, ignore me for some complicated reason I never fully understood. Her life’s disappointments became my life’s disappointments, until finally, I had to leave.

A voice in my head started as a whisper…”Save yourself. You’ve tried for seven years. You’ve tried everything. Save yourself.” The whisper grew louder and louder, until, one day after she screamed at me, “Get out,” I gave myself permission to leave. The facts are blurry. Rage affects me that way. Adrenaline takes over and I begin packing, or mostly not packing, deciding to leave most remnants from “our” life together where they are, with her, like the evidence in a crime scene.

When her sadness infects you and you care too much, your libido starts dying, gasping for breath. When you can no longer write it off as “her” problem because the kisses stopped and the sex became a passionless chore that no one wanted to sign up for like doing the laundry or cleaning out the litter box, your libido most certainly gets the message. The extraordinary deteriorates into the ordinary and finally into an obligation to be suffered through on Valentine’s Day, anniversaries and birthdays.

In spite of the lighthearted rhyme inherent in the word libido, I guess a person’s libido is a sensitive and fleeting component of a person’s psyche. No, I’m not a therapist. Although, I have paid a few for guidance. I always learn everything through experience. While this type of learning is painful, it does prove to make the lessons stick. What I learned through my last breakup is that when another person that I truly love crushes my spirit, my libido takes a leave of absence.

I have good news though. It is awake once again. As it turns out, I can’t kill my libido. It is a resilient part of my soul that seems to eventually resurface when I’ve finally cleared the way for new thinking and new people and new experiences. If I had to guess, I would say that my libido could be my compass, leading me away from the past, when the past threatens to suffocate me and no longer serves a purpose.

I am certain that lesbians will read this and disagree. As lesbians do, my friends have all weighed in, recommending therapy and to stick it out. I get it. We all long for “happily ever after,” with one perfect partner. That’s okay. I’m sure it is even possible. But, this is my truth. Maybe my “happily ever after” involves trying again instead of living in despair for another minute. I know now that my libido is smarter and more intuitive than what passes for my basic intelligence. Go figure. Carpe your libido.


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