Sex Hangover


Sex with an ex is never a good idea. At least that’s what I’d heard.

But I’m stubborn and 9 times out of 10 I have to learn the hard way, so when an “ex sex” opportunity came up, I had to take it. Because that’s what you do when you think you can prove those Cosmo and Glamour articles wrong.

It’s like saying, “Seriously? You think my head will pound tomorrow if I drink two bottles of wine tonight? Bullshit.” And 12 hours later you’re driving through McDonald’s, ordering a double cheeseburger with a large fries and popping ten extra-strength Tylenol. 

A sex hangover. That’s what I ended up with after ex sex. One huge, raging sex hangover.

It started when he texted me about being in my “neighborhood” for work and we went back and forth for a bit which eventually led to him saying, “We should get together sometime and fuck.”

Disclaimer one: If any other man in the world had texted me that, I would have replied, “Go fuck yourself,” and blocked his number. Somehow, from him, it wasn’t offensive–likely because of our history.

Disclaimer two: This man had never been disrespectful while we dated, was not a player or douche and had never given me any indication that he was anything other than a gentleman. I’m the one who’d sabotaged our relationship. He’d been lovely, on all accounts. Handsome, respectful, charming and wonderful.

So. When I got that text, I was a taken aback, yes–but also immediately reminded of how great our sex had been once upon a time, so I replied, “Yes. We should.”

No. We shouldn’t. But we did.

He came over that night after work, we had wine, a bite to eat, small chit chat to catch up, and amazing, world-rocking, sizzling hot sex. He fell asleep (like men do) within one second of basking in the afterglow, and I stayed awake for the next five hours till our alarms went off, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I had just done.

And then the hangover began. No sleep + several glasses of wine  = that foggy feeling of “where am I, what do I have to do today and how can I get out of it.”

But with a sex hangover, it’s also complicated with:

a. the bonding bullshit that oxytocin brings to the table (amirite, ladies?)

b. the memories of how it was before and how very much you liked him

c. the “what did that mean, will we see each other again and should I text him today” confusion.

Add to that the fact that our late-night romp had completely fucked up a lower back/hip injury I’d been dealing with, and I had what I’d classify as one big pounding physical, emotional and mental headache.

It’s amazing how our minds can convince us that we’re capable of handling something that we really, really want in that moment, but know, in the most honest place in our soul, we shouldn’t have.

Men are pretty good at fucking, then moving on. Even with an ex. Maybe especially with an ex. Exes are familiar . . . we know what they like, what turns them on, how to drive them crazy. There’s no learning curve. When you reconnect with an ex sexually, it can be off-the-charts hot. But there are many things it stirs up that are better left lying still. And as women, I don’t think we can control that, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves we can.

The next morning, he kissed me awkwardly, said good-bye and walked out of my life. Again. We texted a little, but our messages were short, quippy and filled with “what the hell do I say now?” vibes.

Later that day, I found a 4-second video on my phone that I had not taken, but appeared to be an obvious attempt to record a snippet of the previous night’s activities. Yup. My sweet, lovely gentleman of an ex had tried to film some of our sexy time while I wasn’t looking. Suddenly my sex hangover intensified. I could now add a dose of disrespect to what I was feeling, and I realized I was no longer an “ex.” I was now an ex-turned-booty-call and was likely sitting squarely in his category of “women who’ll fuck me without expectations.”

All this was exacerbated by the fact that last night I had to go to the guys who’ve been treating my back/hip injury and tell them I’m now in significant pain, not because I went beast mode in the gym or hiked twelve miles, but because I got busy for an evening with a blast from my past. I swear the pain came from my body screaming, “Bad choice, Sienna!”

They gave me printouts to take home of appropriate sex positions for women with my “issues.” Do you know what it’s like to leave your doctor’s office with Xeroxed drawings of people doing it in order to prevent hip pain? It takes the “crazy hot” out of sex. That should extend my lingering sex hangover for another good day or two.

Time for more Aspirin. Some ice. An acupuncture session.

And maybe a cheeseburger.


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