Pleasure Isn’t Validation

For a long time, I thought being wanted meant I was doing something right.

If people wanted me around, I must be tolerable. If they wanted to sleep with me, I must be valuable. If they finished, loudly and enthusiastically, then clearly I had done my job. The longer it lasted, the more they needed me to stay. The more they needed me, the more secure I felt. At least for the moment.

That feeling never lasted.

I used to joke about “conquering another penis,” like it was a badge of honor. In reality, I wasn’t conquering anything. I was burying myself deeper. My body count climbed past one hundred, and somehow the higher the number got, the smaller I felt. At one point, I tried to remember everyone I’d been with and couldn’t. Some of them I didn’t even know the names of at the time.

That was a moment of clarity. Not a rock bottom. Just a quiet, uncomfortable realization that something wasn’t working.

A lot of those encounters weren’t with people I actually wanted. They were with people who made me feel wanted. That distinction mattered more than I was willing to admit back then. I should have said no more often. I didn’t. Saying yes felt easier than sitting alone with myself.

Outside of sex, being flirted with, chosen, and included felt like winning. I liked being the cool one. The funny one. The one with no limits. If people wanted me around, it meant I mattered. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

Being wanted felt powerful.
It also felt temporary.

Sex was a way to calm my anxiety. It soothed the loneliness. It made me feel complete for a moment. Desire made me restless, and sex quieted that restlessness just enough to get through the night. Then it wore off.

Most of the time, I wasn’t even fully present. I was in my head. Managing. Anticipating. Performing. I disconnected mentally while my body did what it knew how to do. It helped me avoid hearing my own thoughts. Avoid sitting with the emptiness I didn’t know how to face.

Sex helped me avoid intimacy with myself.

I told myself I was just a sexual, open-minded person who knew what she wanted. Free. In control. Empowered, even. That narrative worked for a while. It eventually fell apart under its own weight.

Looking back, being known felt more dangerous than being desired. If someone really knew me, they could use that against me later. Lust was predictable. Emotional availability was not. I could handle almost anything except disappointment, so I trained myself to expect it. That way, if things went well, it felt like a bonus instead of a loss waiting to happen.

Underneath all of that was a quieter belief I didn’t like admitting to myself.
I’m not important. I need to try harder to be loved. This always ends the same way.

Sex became a tool. A weapon. A shortcut to closeness that didn’t require trust.

And then something shifted.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly enough that I almost missed it.

Feeling good now feels different. Less urgent. Less performative. Warmer. I don’t need constant stimulation to feel valued or connected. I don’t feel hollow afterward. I don’t feel rushed. I don’t hate myself for needing space.

I worried my husband would resent me when my relationship with sex changed. I worried that wanting it less meant I was failing somehow. That I’d gone from being “too much” to “not enough.” He’s proven, repeatedly, that those fears live in my head, not in our marriage.

Sex now feels like intimacy. Not leverage. Not proof. Not a way to stay relevant. When control isn’t the goal, closeness feels safer. Or at least safer than it used to.

I don’t know if I’ve ever fully felt safe or secure in the way people talk about it so casually. But I do know this version of connection feels more honest.

If I could talk to the version of myself who equated sex with worth, I wouldn’t shame her. She was trying to survive. I would tell her to pause. To take sex out of the equation if she could. To figure out what she actually wanted before putting her body through things her mind wasn’t on board with.

You’re not broken if you want more.
You’re not broken if you want less.
And you’re not broken if you want nothing at all.

Your body remembers things your mind might not be ready to name yet. Listen to it.

There is life after devastation. Love after sexual assault. Healing after a lifetime of trauma. There are a thousand reasons people compromise themselves to survive. That doesn’t make them weak. It makes them human.

Sex can be incredible. On your terms. Consensual. Grounded. Connected.

Keep the wisdom. Release the armor.

So give yourself some grace.