I Survived a Narcissist. Now I'm Fucking Again.

Because nothing says emotional recovery like a half-arsed blowjob from an old fuck buddy.

Turns out, healing after narcissistic abuse for me didn’t mean journaling, meditating, or finding my inner child. It meant finding my inner whore. Mine, apparently, had been hungry and pissed about it.

I didn’t slowly come back to life. There was no gradual, sensual rediscovery of my body, no spiritual awakening that smelled like sandalwood or organic lemongrass tea. What I got was Grindr. A phone full of men I used to call friends, and sometimes didn’t, and a long, awkward list of “Hey... so... how’ve you been?” messages that weren’t really about conversation. They were about dick appointments I’d abandoned without warning, many months earlier.

Because here’s the part you don’t want to know. When you’re fucking a narcissist, the sex is good. Manipulation has that side effect. People who want to control you usually try harder in bed. What’s not good is the avalanche of mindfuckery that comes with it. Those first few weeks after crawling out of that relationship felt like having Covid all over again, complete with the sensory blackout. Except this time it wasn’t taste or smell that disappeared, it was my sex drive and my desire to exist. Honestly, same difference.

But eventually, the anger kicked in, followed by the frustration, then came the guilt. All the usual break-up baggage, just spiced up with actual trauma. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I stopped wanting closure and started wanting cock.

Rebuilding wasn’t some cinematic, life-affirming montage, it was messy, and awkward. But it worked. I reconnected, swallowed my pride, along with a few other things, and sent out those cringeworthy texts. And when the responses came in, when the first “You free tonight?” hit my screen, something changed. I remembered that casual sex didn’t have to feel like a weakness. It could be a power move. It could be mine.

This wasn’t healing. It was survival. And survival, for me, looked a hell of a lot like getting laid. So I lay back, lifted my legs like I was at Sunday mass, and thought to myself, I’m here, I’m queer, just put it in already.

Lesson One: Fucking Isn’t Healing. It’s Survival.

I didn’t start fucking again because I healed. I started fucking again because I was sick of not fucking. Healing sounds like one of those things people do on yoga retreats, journaling their inner growth while sipping something green and pretending it tastes like health. I wasn’t looking for growth. I wasn’t interested in reflection. And peace? Please. What I wanted was to get laid. Not gently, or romantically. Properly. Aggressively, like my body was a motel that had been shut down for months and I’d just reopened it with a giant neon sign saying vacancies available, no deposit required.

So if you’re sitting there thinking you’ll get back to sex when you feel “ready,” let me save you the trouble. You won’t. You’re waiting for a feeling that isn’t coming. And that’s exactly why you need to start. Because reclaiming your body isn’t about reaching some profound state of inner alignment. It’s about remembering you still own it. And sometimes the easiest way to do that is to let someone else climb inside it for a while.

You don’t need to feel healed to get laid. You just need to decide it’s your choice again. Preferably with someone hot, moderately sane, and stupid enough to think you’re the one doing them a favor.

Lesson Two: Stop Waiting to Be Ready. You’re Not. Fuck Anyway.

If I’d waited until I felt ready, I’d still be sitting on my couch eating pity takeout and pretending I was “working on myself.”

The uncomfortable truth is that you don’t wake up one day feeling healed, whole, and suddenly horny in a socially acceptable way. What actually happens is you hit a point where the silence feels heavier than a stranger on top of you, and you realize you’d rather deal with the stranger. That’s your cue.

I didn’t ease back into sex like some fragile, wounded bird fluttering toward intimacy. I tripped into it, emotionally concussed, and dragged my self-esteem behind me like a broken suitcase. And guess what? It worked.

That first time wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even good, it was awkward and perfunctory, and halfway through, I started thinking about whether I’d remembered to defrost chicken for dinner. But when I got home afterward, I sat down, wiped myself off, and thought, well... at least that wasn’t him.

That’s the moment of epiphany.

The point isn’t to have perfect sex. The point is to have sex that belongs to you.

So, the realization for me was that I wasn’t really waiting for readiness, because I wasn’t broken. I was just on pause, and the fastest way to hit play is to get fucked.

Lesson Three: Your Body’s Open for Business. Stop Apologizing.

By the time I did start fucking again, I wasn’t looking for connection. I was looking for a willing participant. That’s it. I wasn’t out there searching for my soul. I was looking for someone who’d agree to show up, hard, and not ask questions.

And honestly? That’s when I realized that I had standards, and that they’d healed before I did.

I stopped treating my body like a broken temple waiting for a worthy visitor. I treated it like a pop-up store in the middle of nowhere, doing a clearance sale with no refunds. If you were dumb enough to show up, congratulations, you won. Now, take your prize and move on.

At first, I felt like a slut, that I’d degraded myself, that I’d resorted to finding meaning in cheap throwaway validation. But the realization dawned on me, soon after some long, deep analysis. I am a slut, and I should be proud.

I thought I was supposed to be doing something deeper, like I was meant to be reclaiming intimacy, or rebuilding trust, or whatever Instagram therapists tell you sex is about. But then I looked around at the men in my bed and thought, nope. Pretty sure this is it. This is the work.

Because the truth is, your body doesn’t care if you’re healed. It’s just waiting for you to let it back onto the market, even if you’re the discount rack by the window getting bleached by the sun.

And mine? Mine was open. Clearance stock. Limited-time offer.