I Haven't Had Sex Since Someone Called Me Their "Dream Girl"

some people identify as “sexual” people, but I’ve never really felt that way.

image @lisaspliffson.

by Sarah duRivage-Jacobs.

I truly hate talking (or writing) about my sex life. That’s because there barely is one. But sometimes when something makes you cringe, it’s worth investigating. And so here I am, telling you all about my somewhat sad relationship with sex, with hopes that maybe this year things will change. 

Some people identify as “sexual” people, but I’ve never really felt that way. What I attribute that to, for the most part, is my complete discomfort with it all. I’ve always felt uncomfy with the idea of having sex because of my insecurities about my body, but after my most recent encounter, I was almost turned off from it entirely. (Well, sex with men, to be exact.) I’ve tried to think through why exactly that is, and I’ve concluded that there are two main factors-- It was a generally bad experience, and he called me his “dream girl.”

Why would being called someone’s “dream girl” turn me off from sex? There are a few reasons. First, it’s just a dumb thing to say. Second, I hate when people say the thing they assume you want them to. (I can see through your veiled attempts at winning me over.) Third, and the most upsetting to me, is that I’ve never had an easy time accepting someone’s compliments at face value. 

You see, as a fat woman, I’m somewhat used to getting one of two types of compliments about my body. (It’s also worth noting that I’m not a fan of unsolicited compliments about my appearance in general.) They’ll go out of their way to mention that they’re into bigger bodies, which makes it seem like they shouldn’t be, or they’ll be overly effusive to the point where I feel completely objectified. The “dream girl” sentiment fell somewhere in between—it simultaneously felt performative and a little fetish-y. Like he had been imagining having sex with someone like me and had finally achieved it. Or, worse, he thought that pretending that was true would somehow be a turn-on.

But the idea of “fetishization” is a complicated one to me. When we say that being attracted to fat women is a fetish, we’re implying that there’s something unusual or unsavory about it. Though, of course, when the attraction feels targeted, isolated to the body, or it’s kept behind closed doors, that’s when it feels creepy.

That’s why my last sexual encounter left such a bad taste in my mouth—I wasn’t sure if I was overanalyzing the “dream girl” comment or keying into a weirdness that was actually there. In a perfect world, I’d hear a compliment about my body and wouldn’t immediately need to unpack it over and over again. I’d just think, yeah, that checks out. But when you’re insecure, you constantly feel like your body is up for appraisal—and you’re prone to questioning it anytime someone offers a positive evaluation. I wish I didn’t care about any of it, and I wish we lived in a world where objectification wasn’t even a thing we had to contend with.

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, but if I had a goal for this year, it would be to have a sexual awakening of sorts. I look forward to a day when I’ll eventually feel at ease in my body—particularly as it relates to sex. To put it simply, I want to be so caught up in the moment with someone that I don’t even have the headspace to overthink anything. (And yes, if you’re wondering, my last sexploit was so bad that I had plenty of brain capacity to obsess over every word.)

Here’s to hoping that, this year, I can turn over a new (sex) leaf.

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Sarah duRivage-Jacobs is a freelance writer and editor who lives in New York City with her creamsicle cat, Jasper. When she's not writing words, she's at a karaoke bar scream-singing "Moana" or binge-watching whatever Netflix releases that week (and talking about it on Instagram).