A few weeks ago, I slept with a man after a couple of dates. But as we feigned sleep that night, the atmosphere shifted, and by the time the 7am light fought its way through my bedroom curtains, the easy banter of the previous evening had given way to strained niceties as he fumbled around the floor for his socks.
After he left, I went back to sleep until noon, only to wake up with gut-curdling anxiety. I was left to do the awkward trip to Boots for the morning-after pill alone , grappling with the unique form of vulnerability that comes post-sex. People have been contending with the frequently brutal aftermath of casual sex for decades.
I myself have been guilty of being cooler towards someone after sleeping with them, whether for fear of seeming too keen, opening myself up to ghosting , or genuinely just losing interest. The thing is, sex is an intimate act, even if hook-up culture tries to convince us otherwise. Perhaps, in an era when our collective mental health is in tumult and therapy is out of reach for most of us financially , we should be offering some form of sexual aftercare to each other?
Part of me believes that, due to a heady cocktail of sex chemicals and double standards, women warrant more post-sex consideration than men. Without employing convoluted medical jargon, after physical intimacy, the body releases a symphony of hormones that conspire to make us feel good, and, at times, not so good.
The overwhelming instrument in this cacophony is oxytocin, more of which is produced by women than men , making us feel more attached to a sexual partner after the act. It hits you like a brick and leaves you reeling.
