The orgasms were amazing —literally, the best sex I’d ever had. But the emotional depth left something to be desired.

To be clear, this wasn’t a fleeting affair. We were lovers for nearly two decades, tangled up in one another for most of my adult life.

He knew exactly how to touch me, how to make my body do that thing. He also ticked all the boxes on my inner child wound list.

That’s the thing about sexual chemistry —it’s really good at concealing emotional incompatibility. 

I convinced myself that mind-blowing orgasms meant something deeper. Surely, someone who knew the entire map of my body must also know my heart. (Spoiler alert: nope.)

If I’m honest, I chose him because he felt like home—not the home I wanted, but the home I knew. His emotional unavailability was familiar terrain—the same old dance of making myself small enough to fit into whatever space he was willing to offer.

The sex seemed transcendent because it was the only place I felt seen. Even then, I was performing —being the “cool girl” who didn’t need the morning-after conversation, who could handle piss-poor aftercare, who didn’t require emotional investment to spread her legs.

I naively mistook intensity for intimacy…

Every encounter felt more epic than the last—the anticipation, the passion, the way he memorized the curves and lines. Sometimes, it felt a lot like intimacy sans key components like consistency, presence, and vulnerability.

Taking Flight, 2024 by Stacey Herrera

When it ended—because, of course, it ended—it was anticlimactic. There was no drama, no muss, no fuss. He just stopped initiating contact.

I’d reach out, and he’d respond. Which kept the door cracked open just enough to convince me that we still had something. But here’s the thing, my number had been the same all those years—if he wanted to talk, he knew how to dial those digits—but he didn’t.

Three years after we faded to black, I found out he got married. Which wasn’t totally surprising, but it still hit like a ton of bricks. Not because I was secretly hoping that we’d become an us —I didn’t.

What broke my heart was realizing that we had been having two completely different experiences the whole time. That was the hardest truth.

In my world, we were friends who happened to have amazing sex. In his world… well, I’ll never really know what we were in his world. 

But I know one thing — friends don’t ghost friends. And friends don’t let you find out about major life changes from the digital grapevine.

His disappearing act was nothing new, but realizing how long I believed good sex was a substitute for intimacy —that gobsmacked.

I spent so much time convinced that sex was enough when I knew in my heart of hearts that I wanted depth —just not with him.

Sex and intimacy are not the same thing.
Those two words should never be used interchangeably. 

It took me years to get that—and even longer to stop settling for one without the other. Amazing sex is not a consolation prize for emotional unavailability. I get to have both without apology.

Now I’m in my “Yes—And” season. 

Sex AND intimacy.
Intensity AND depth.
Pleasure AND presence.
Orgasms AND connection.

Because I’m worth it. AND you are too.

xo,

P.S. This song right here… you’ll get it. 😉

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