The weight of being held

Hey pleasure seekers, tonight’s blog takes a slightly different tone from my recent ones. Cue the vulnerability…

I don’t often dwell on loneliness. I keep myself busy. I have wonderful friends, a social life full of adventure, and my fair share of fun when it comes to sexual escapades. And yet, tonight, as I reflect on the past few days, I feel it creeping in—that quiet ache, the kind that whispers instead of shouts.

It hit me over the weekend, in the simplest of moments. My friend, the animal lover, from my Dating Wrapped blog—came over for dinner. We had one date last year before quickly realising we were better as friends, and since then, we’ve built a really genuine friendship. Friday night was easy. We ate, we talked, we lounged on the couch and watched a movie. No awkwardness. No pressure. No expectation. No sex. Just two mates enjoying each other’s company.

At one point, I was essentially a human pillow—for him and my dog—and it struck me how nice it felt to just exist in the presence of a man who truely cares about me, with no ulterior motive.

And that’s when I realised how much I miss that.

Not just companionship. Not just sex. But the simple, quiet intimacy of being close to someone who cares.

That thought lingered as I reflected on my recent time with Mr. Big. The sex is great, no doubt about that. But I’ve come to realise it’s not just the physical connection that’s left an imprint—it’s the fleeting moments of tenderness in between. The way he wraps his arms around me, the feeling of someone simply being there. And it’s not even about him. It’s about what he represents: a presence, a warmth, a comfort I don’t often allow myself to crave.

But here’s the truth—I miss being held. Not in the passionate, tangled-up, feverish way, but in the quiet, grounding way. The kind that makes you feel safe. Seen. Cared for. The kind that says, I see you. You’re not alone.

I’ve also been thinking about something else this past week. A few of my male readers have messaged me recently asking how they can encourage their partners to want sex more often, or to be more adventurous. Some even say, ‘I wish my partner was more like you.’ And while I always respond differently depending on the situation, there’s one thing I almost always remind them of: You have something I don’t.

A foundation. Someone who loves you. And while sex is important, it’s not the only thing.

Their partner might not have the sex drive I do, for a multitude of reasons, but they are there. They love them. They’ve built something that extends far beyond physical connection, and that is something I try to remind them of. Because as much as I enjoy the excitement, the passion, the adventure—there’s a different kind of intimacy that I deeply miss.

Most days, I probably push those feelings down. Because I have so much to be grateful for. Because I tell myself I don’t need it. Because, if I’m being really honest, there are moments when I wonder if I’m even loveable in that way.

Or maybe my hormones are just playing tricks on me, and my period is about to start.

Or maybe both things can be true at once.

Either way, tonight, I feel it. And I think being vulnerable is important. My sex life may look exciting to many of my readers, but please know—there are things I lack and crave, just like anyone else. I write to be honest, to connect, to remind people that we’re never truely alone in our feelings.

So if you ever feel lonely, please know—I feel it too.

(And yes, I’m writing this with a glass of red wine in hand and tears in my eyes. I’m human, I’m messy, and sometimes, I just need to let myself feel.)