Stuff
Right now, we’re all in a romance recession, writes Verity Johnson.
Verity Johnson is an Auckland-based writer and business owner.
OPINION: “Thank you, thank you, thank you… !”
A beaming blonde in a backless, blackberry coloured slip dress was swooping towards me like Venus rising from her clamshell. She flung her arms around my neck and, before I could open my mouth in surprise, kissed me on the lips.
We’d just finished a burlesque show, and this chick was so happy she didn’t even mind getting a mouthful of top-lip sweat and mango body spray. (It’s always a gamble kissing someone who has just come off-stage, we’ll always be sweating like an Italian marble water feature.)
But she was so happy that a goldfish could have flopped out of my hair and she wouldn’t care. I could see she’d just had years and years of demons exorcised in the most exhilarating way possible. She pulled me into a tendon tearing-ly tight hug and whispered,
“I haven’t felt this sexy, or even this free, since… well, since… ”
Ah. Yes. Since Covid.
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The memory of the past three years slunk into the room and glowered at us, like a shady ex gatecrashing a mutual friend’s house party. She didn’t have to say any more. I knew exactly what she was talking about.
See, one of the unexpected things about having a burlesque club is that it gives you an unusual amount of insight into the hearts, and loins, of the public. You end up as a kinda erotic economist, tracking the ups and downs of the sensual stock market. And right now, we’re all in a romance recession.
For at least a year now, it’s felt like sex is down, sensuality is way down and people are struggling to remember what sexy even feels like. I’ve had so many conversations with audience members about how we’ve forgotten how to feel… well, anything other than permanent low level dread.
I’m no exception. I may work in a sparkly industry but I’ve spent six months feeling as hot as two day old oats hardening on the bottom of a cereal bowl.
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Verity Johnson: “Over the past few years, studies have shown that Covid put our sex lives in the deep freeze.”
But the good news is that there’s nothing wrong with us per se. And it’s not even just us.
Over the past few years, studies have shown that Covid put our sex lives in the deep freeze. A Kinsey Institute study on the impact of Covid-19 on marital quality found that 24% of married people report having less sex than they were pre-Covid. Other studies suggest that during Covid, 34% of couples experienced pandemic related conflict, and that significantly decreased how much sex they were having. And a Kiwi study from wellness company No Ugly similarly found that 46% of respondents (most of whom are women) were having sex twice a month or less.
The consensus is Covid left our collective sex lives so sterile they may as well have been dunked in hand sanitiser. And it’s not entirely surprising. After all, stress is one of the biggest anti-aphrodisiacs imaginable, and living with chronic anxiety over the past few years has put everything but immediate questions of survival on ice.
But Covid also secretly calcified many other parts of us. It has silently chilled many of our subconscious hungers, curiosities and adventurous whims. And we’re only just realising it now.
Who else forgot how to travel and was a nervy, sweaty mess the first time they went overseas post pandemic? Or recently realised that they don’t know how to have fun any more? Or that they’d forgotten how infinitely full of possibility the world is?
Stuff
Verity Johnson: “there’s still good news... our sex lives aren't dead, they just need to be defrosted.”
All of those feelings come from the same place that our Eros does – our joie de vivre. And it turns out that Covid took all this, encased it in ice, and stuffed it at the back of our internal freezers like decades old spag bol.
And yes, it’s depressing but there’s still good news. It means that our sex lives aren't dead, they just need to be defrosted.
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