Chapter 1 — I'm Still Confused

Until I turned twenty-six, sex meant "beginning" to me. Because whenever I had sex with someone, it marked the start of a sustained connection—some form of lasting relationship—that hadn't existed before.

In bed, I discovered things about a person I could never learn elsewhere: the features of their body, their unique scent, their sexual preferences—even down to the exact number of hairs on their nipple.

So while sex could carry countless meanings, as I said at the start, I had always interpreted it primarily as a "beginning." That was true, at least, until March of my twenty-seventh year—until I met Sarah Kim.

We met at a book discussion group. She and I worked in similar fields and shared a nearly identical sensibility.

As we talked about films, books, history, politics—diving into a wide range of topics—we blended our emotions, and as our emotional depth thickened, we quickly moved on to blending our bodies.

She truly loved the act of sex.

Once, she whispered to me, "Among women—or even compared to most men—I have an incredibly strong sex drive. I don't lose to anyone."

Since I also tended to enjoy sex, our frequency was remarkably high. Even when we weren't having sex, we often talked about it.

I'd never been able to openly discuss sex with previous partners, so each time I could freely talk and act on sex with her—both physically and verbally—I felt an odd sense of pride.

But she had one habit during sex that felt burdensome. Whenever we reached the final phase, nearing climax, she had to climb on top of me, ride me roughly, and grind her hips in circles to reach orgasm.

I wasn't exactly sure what that sensation was, but she clearly had a very specific point she needed to hit. I learned to roughly gauge whether she'd reached orgasm by reading her facial expressions, moans, and body movements.

Now, some might ask why I considered this habit "burdensome." But there was a reason I insisted on that word.

The truth is, a man's physical condition isn't always optimal during sex. Just as women have their risky days, men do too. But her habit allowed no mercy. If I came before she took her final position, she always mocked me.

I personally believe sex is not only the union of bodies but also of minds. If you mentally encourage your partner, cheer them on, and carefully choose your words, the body will inevitably follow.

But if, on the other hand, you openly and harshly show dissatisfaction, your partner becomes disheartened—and that affects the next time, and the next. So sometimes, I just wished she'd understand.

Of course, my ultimate ejaculation point and hers were naturally different. But I hoped, just once in a while, she could let me come when I wanted to, without pressure.

Yet, though she seemed to follow in bed, she never truly relinquished control. Later, I began pointlessly insisting on my preferred positions or thrusting too aggressively—useless stubbornness born of frustration.

Certainly, through sex with her, I made dramatic progress in delaying ejaculation and mastering technical aspects like positions. But as time passed, the erotic, emotional foundation that should underlie sex kept fading away.

And so, she and I stayed together—body and soul intertwined—for exactly one hundred days.

At first, I thought, Could there really be someone so perfectly suited to me? and enjoyed sweet, blissful days. But as time went on, we were both surprised—and disappointed—by sides of each other we hadn't expected. Without blaming anyone, we reached the end.

I was the one who first suggested breaking up. And the reason I decided to end it with her? Sex. Yes, there had been moments of happiness through sex, but gradually, stress began creeping in between those moments. And over time, sex with her became a burden to me.

Even after the breakup, she kept contacting me. But I firmly believed in one truth: people who break up will, if they reunite, inevitably break up again for the same reason. So I didn't answer her calls.

As time passed and her messages finally stopped, we unexpectedly ran into each other at a brand event. In that moment, we pretended not to know each other. We clearly recognized one another, yet we didn't even exchange a brief nod.

It was awkward, yet somehow inevitable. I'd never learned how to treat an ex-lover after a breakup.

And then, that same night, just before dawn, she called me again.

For some reason, I answered the call I'd refused for so long. We made plans to meet, telling ourselves we'd just "see each other's face again." But of course, that was just an excuse. Deep down, we both wanted to try again.

From my side, I had no new partner, I was lonely, and running into her by chance felt, in a way, like fate.

So we met again, took each other's hands, and decided to piece back together the shattered fragments of "us." And on the day we reunited, without either of us suggesting it, we headed straight to a motel.

The moment we entered the room, we had sex—just like we used to. Not more intense, not less. Exactly as we had before.

At first, I'd silently vowed that since this was our reunion, our first sex should be passionate—fierce, overflowing with love, beginning with wild kisses the second we stepped inside. But in reality, we ended up having sex as mechanically as eating three meals a day or going back and forth to the bathroom.

I laid her on the bed, climbed on top, and licked her slowly from lips to chest—every corner, but not her ears or back. That was our established pattern of foreplay.

She'd never particularly enjoyed giving or receiving foreplay, and she got wet quickly even without it. So I quickly skipped the dry touches and moved straight to penetration.

I don't know if she truly enjoyed that sex.

But that day, she kept moaning "Good," "I love you," "Delicious"—clear signs of satisfaction. We continued, moving from the bed to in front of the dresser, then onto the round chair.

We'd been at it for a while when I suddenly caught myself thinking about something else. Not feeling joy from our reunion sex, but ironically wondering: Will her old habit—the one that used to exhaust me—show up again today?

And just as I was lost in thought, she had already climbed on top of me, riding me hard, chasing her own unique orgasm. Just like before, I came only after her orgasm, only after her silent permission.

After sex, I couldn't find the words to describe the emotion welling inside me. Not good, not bad—just slightly sticky, uncomfortable. It wasn't love. It wasn't excitement.

Even though we'd just had what should've been an intense, passionate reunion, I hadn't been present. I just pulled out one or two extra tissues and handed them to her.

You probably guessed it: after that, we never met again. And the responsibility for that lies entirely with me.

Through that sex—the one meant to restart something real—I realized, without knowing it, that I had already begun waiting for her old habit. And the moment I felt it again in my body, I came—not just releasing my semen, but also ejecting the entirety of our relationship from inside me to outside.

For me, sex with someone had always strongly meant a beginning—a sticky, intimate start, a full experience of the other person. But with her, it wasn't a beginning. Through "sex," I reached an end.

What exactly had I expected from meeting her again? Looking back now, I think I wanted to meet her again to reclaim the original meaning sex once held for me. But that proof collapsed completely. And so did our relationship.

Sex no longer carries only the meaning of a beginning for me.

Now, it can be a beginning—or it can mean an end. And as time passes, when I meet someone new, sex will expand into yet another meaning within me.

Years after breaking up with her, I still try to figure out where, between beginning and end, I should place sex.