The Body Wants What the Body Wants: On Pursuing Your Partner Even When Your Mind Has Checked Out

Have you ever heard of sexsomnia?  If not, don’t feel bad.  I hadn’t either, until I started doing it.

I’ll never forget the first time I found out I did this.  I’d been sleeping rather poorly for weeks, uninterrupted but not restfully.  I never felt like I had slept enough, whether it was 4 or 10 hours in the sack, and I took a lot of afternoon naps on my off days.  It had been going on for months, and I was beginning to reach a constant state of exhaustion wherein everything was hazy and nothing felt quite real.

One morning, I left the bedroom to find Ashley in the kitchen, making breakfast, in her skimpy black silk Victoria’s Secret robe.   She was listening to Michael Buble on her iPod dock and singing to herself.  She’s not usually much of a morning person, so to see her in such a good mood before noon was a real rarity.  Also, given her wardrobe selection, I assumed she was feeling a little amorous.  I wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity.  I snuck up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and kissed her shoulder.  ”Good morning, sexy.”

“Hey you,” she answered, rubbing her cheek against mine.  ”Did you sleep well?”

“Of course not,” I said, “but maybe I can take a nap here in a while.”  I kissed her shoulder again.

“Not until after breakfast!”  She continued cooking, but I could hear the playfulness in her voice.  A good sign.  I tested the waters by sliding my hands down to her bare thighs and moving up just barely below the hem of her robe while nipping her nape lightly.  She giggled and squirmed in my arms, elbowing me in the ribs and casting a good-natured glare over her shoulder.  ”Stooooop, haven’t you had enough already?  I’m sore enough as it is!”

I blinked.  ”Wait………… what?”

“I think we might have thrown my hip out of whack,” Ashley continued as though I hadn’t said anything.  ”I need to recouperate!”

Confused doesn’t quite capture what I was feeling.  Befuddled maybe.  Use whatever term you like.  ”Umm, what are you talking about?”

Another elbow in the ribs.  ”Shut up and eat your breakfast.”

“No, seriously, what are you talking about?”  I let her go and took a step back.  She turned to face me, confusion and amusement vying for control of her face, until she saw my expression.

“Wait, are you serious?  You don’t remember last night?”

“Obviously not.”

She sat the plate down and crossed her arms.  ”You don’t remember rolling me over onto my stomach and making love to me?”

“Pretty sure I would remember something like that,” I answered crossly.  ”You had to be dreaming or something.”

“Ahh, no, I didn’t.”  Ashley pulled the shoulder of her robe to the side, revealing an angry purple bruise.  I’d call it a hickey, but this was way too intense for that term.  ”You bit the shit out of my shoulder, pinned my upper body to the bed, and took me from behind.”  She covered up the mark and folded her arms again.  ”It was pretty fucking hot.”

Holy shit.

We chalked it up as a one-time thing, owing to my general state of stress and exhaustion.  But a few days later it happened again, when she was unwilling to cooperate, and I woke to her pushing me away violently and telling me to go back to sleep.  I remember sitting up in bed, dazed, uncertain of what had happened, but ultimately going back to sleep.  And the cycle continued for months.  Most of the time, I would never remember anything happening at all.  The few times I did remember, it was like a dream, or it was a dream wherein I was making love to Ashley, or someone else.  She would tell me the next morning, “You did it again,” and look at me with a worried expression.

I finally looked into it, because it was beginning to worry us both.  Turns out, it’s a recognized sleep disorder, a form of parasomnia, in the same class as sleep-walking.  Somnambulistic sexual activity, caused by a deficiency in the sleep-period dopamine production that causes most people to be effectively paralysed while sleeping.  Mine was a mild case because Ashley could wake me up, but more severe cases had been documented wherein sufferers had raped unwilling victims in their sleep.

Again, holy shit.

I saw my doctor about it, and as it happens, I was his second case of odd parasomnia.  He said it could be induced by stress at home and at work (which, admittedly, had increased over the past several months), and he told me that as long as I was waking up, it shouldn’t be anything to be concerned about.  He suggested I try taking melatonin before bed and try some breathing relaxation exercises before bed.  Superstitious hoakum, but I gave it a shot.

Over time, my episodes occurred less frequently, and to date I haven’t tried to molest Ashley in my sleep in almost three months.  Surprisingly, she’s slightly disappointed by this, as the notion that I wanted her so badly that my body pursued her even when my mind had checked out was somewhat arousing to her.  (Not as surprising as I originally thought, given our recent discussion about her pain during sex, but still.)  I’ve never quite figured out what causes these seemingly random episodes.  I figure it may be an extension of my general sexual obsession, my physical body acting out my subconscious desires, but that seems somehow too Freudian for my liking.  Whatever the reason, it’s certainly one of the more interesting things someone can experience.  And it gives me adamn good reason to exclude my future children from the bedroom when daddy is sleeping.

Not my usual entry, I know, but Ashley brought it up during our Skype session this evening, so I felt compelled to share.  I’d be interested to hear if any of you have experienced something similar, as the fucker or the… umm… fuck-ee?  Is that right?  I don’t know.

Source:  Only Partly Erotic    14 Jun 2013


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