I wasn’t prepared for how ravenous my body had become
Skin hunger and an appetite for more
Over the last 12 weeks, since I had my hysterectomy, I’ve calculated at least a dozen people have touched me.
They include nurses, doctors, physiotherapists, an osteopath, my hairdresser, a friend, and my partner of nearly 25 years.
I’ve touched myself as well:
Washing my body in the shower and, after enough weeks had passed, patting my skin dry after a short soak in the bath.
Massaging my scars with nourishing oil and learning the new landscape of my belly.
Gently, tentatively, lovingly, stroking my vulva, checking I can still orgasm and that nothing gets damaged when I do.
But there was another form of touch that I’d been both craving and avoiding.
Whether we call it lovemaking or sex with another, I don’t mind. What I did mind, however, was my anxiety about going through with it. I minded the uncertainty of how it (how I) would feel. And I minded my reluctance to engage in something that I knew could be deeply healing.
We waited 12 weeks. No pressure. No demands. But an ongoing and mutually stated desire to welcome this part of our lives back in.
There had been plenty of touch along the way.
Hand-holding on the sofa and while out walking. Cuddles on the couch and in bed. Kisses that always stopped before they become too passionate… Respecting the invisible line that I’d drawn in the sand – I’m not ready, yet.
Because plenty of hands had touched me in a professional capacity, and because I’d received plenty of pleasurable touch too, I wasn’t prepared for just how ravenous my body had become.
It wasn’t just ‘skin hunger’; it was a powerful need to grab and press and feel my partner’s whole body on mine.
While the fingers of my lover moved between my thighs, my outstretched hands reached for them. I positioned myself as close as possible, making contact with all the body parts on offer, hungering for the incomparable heat of skin-on-skin, and needing to touch just as much as I desired to be touched.
I needed the grounding of two bodies entwined. I needed to anchor my feelings to the safety of their shores – fearful that (if I didn’t) I would be cast adrift, lost in a tumultuous sea.
Previously, when I’d thought about the term ‘skin hunger’, I’d only thought about wanting to be touched.
I believed that an easy solution to missing touch would be to ask a friend for a hug, or to visit a massage therapist or other bodyworker.
But I’d overlooked something important: the need to touch another person intimately. To feel the freedom of permission to explore their body as a way of bringing myself back into mine.
Tell me…
What are your experiences of skin hunger? Has anything surprised you about this?
What happens to your sex life when ‘life’ happens?
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