I Don’t Know How to Have Sober Sex

Jul 22

Kumusta Tita,

My husband and I are having issues with mismatched sex drives. He wants to have sex more often, but I’m newly sober and navigating what sober sex feels like.

I am a recovering addict (crystal meth, in case you’re wondering), and I met my husband while sober. Prior to meeting him, I was always having sex with guys while high. The feeling was incredible, having sex for hours on end and losing track of time. However, the comedown was a lot worse. I would spend days in bed, my teeth looked like I’d been chewing rocks, and my mental health took a really bad turn. Recovery has been hard, but I know it’s for my own good. I started going out on dates, and that’s when I met my now-husband. He’s the sweetest man ever and has been so unbelievably patient with me and my recovery. But now that we’re newlyweds, he would like to consummate the marriage on our honeymoon. However, the thought of having sex while not high is terrifying.

I want to connect with him, but my body and brain are still adjusting. I feel guilty for not matching his energy. What do I do?

Sincerely,

Horny and Healing

Hey HH,

First off, fuck guilt.

Throw it out the window. Drown it in the goddamn river. You’re already in the middle of a brutal, beautiful transformation—getting sober is no small thing—and now you’re trying to relearn how to fuck without the training wheels of Tina to take the edge off. That’s not weakness. That’s courage. Grit. That’s standing in front of the mirror without a filter for the first time in years.

Of course, it feels weird. Of course, your body’s not buzzing with heat and desire like it used to. You’re adjusting to a new operating system. Everything’s louder now. The lights, the thoughts, the awkward pauses. You can’t just slip into a warm, floaty haze and ride the wave anymore. You’ve got to be here. Awake. Watching every flicker of insecurity show up like a goddamn neon sign.

Here’s the truth most people don’t want to say out loud: sober sex is fucking terrifying at first. You’re naked not just physically, but mentally. You feel everything. The clumsiness. The silence. The vulnerability. You remember all the shit you used to get high to forget. And trying to be turned on in that headspace? Nearly impossible sometimes.

But that’s also where the good stuff starts. The real stuff. You’re not broken. You’re just raw. Like a fresh nerve.

So what do you do?

You don’t fake it. You don’t slap on a smile and try to ride his libido like it’s business as usual. You talk. You sit down, maybe with coffee, maybe on the couch in your sweats, and say, “I’m figuring this out. I want to want you, but my brain’s rewiring itself, and I need you to be patient.”

Then you ask him to join you—not in some big, dramatic, tantric ritual—but in the everyday act of re-learning touch. Maybe it starts with a back rub. A make-out session on the couch. Stroking his chest while you lie next to him and breathe together. No pressure to come. No expectation of fucking. Just being close. Intimate. Without the chemicals.

And you have to let go of this internalised bullshit that says you're somehow less than because your libido isn’t performing like a porn script right now. This isn’t a fucking race. You’re not defective. You’re healing. And healing isn’t linear. Some days, you might feel like you’ve cracked the code and your body lights up like it used to. Other days? You’ll want to curl up and disappear. That’s normal.

If your husband can’t ride that wave with you, if he starts acting like this is some unbearable burden he’s carrying because his dick’s not getting what it wants when it wants it, then we’ve got a different conversation. One about empathy. One about respect. One about whether he sees you as a whole human being, or just a delivery system for sex.

And look, I get it. You probably miss the sex too. Or some version of it. Maybe those chemically-enhanced nights felt more spontaneous, more wild, more connected. But were they real? Or were they just familiar?

Sober sex isn’t less. It’s just different. Slower. Quieter. More tender, sometimes. More intense, other times. You’ve got to give yourself time to figure out what turns you on now. What desire feels like when it isn’t numbed by drugs. What it means to fuck present, rather than perform.

So stop punishing yourself for not being where you “should” be. Fuck “should.” There’s no roadmap for this. Just two people in a relationship, trying to meet each other halfway while navigating a massive emotional reboot.

And your husband? He needs to understand that if he wants more sex, he’s got to be part of the process, not just the end result. That means sitting with the discomfort. Showing up without pressure. Being turned on by closeness, not just penetration. And learning how to love the version of you that’s doing the hardest goddamn thing anyone can do; staying sober in a world that sells escape on every fucking corner.

Sex will come back. Desire will return. Probably in new, richer, weirder forms. But only if you’re honest. Only if you stay with yourself through the discomfort. And only if the guy next to you has the guts to meet you in that raw, unfiltered space.

This isn’t about how much sex you’re having. It’s about whether you’re safe enough to be seen, touched, and loved in your most unvarnished state.

If that’s not sexy, I don’t know what the fuck is.

Mahal kita,

Tita Slut