𝐒𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐱 𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭

This is what it feels like to f*ck with your soul awake.

I used to drink before sex.

Not because I was trying to get drunk —

but because I didn’t know how to stay.

I didn’t know how to stay in my body.

Didn’t know how to stay with myself.

Didn’t know how to stay honest when my heart whispered “no,” but my mouth kept saying “sure.”

So, I poured the wine.

Tipped the vodka.

Bit my lip, smiled, and floated out of myself.

It wasn’t always violent.

It wasn’t always obvious.

But it was always a betrayal.

When I was married in my twenties and early thirties, I thought sex was supposed to be something I endured.

That’s what I’d been taught — subtly, silently, and in a thousand tiny cultural echoes.

Be sexy. Be available. Be ready.

Don’t be cold. Don’t be frigid. Don’t be “too emotional.”

Give him what he needs.

And so, I gave.

And I gave.

And I gave until I disappeared.

But only after a drink.

Because sober?

I felt too much.

Later, in my second relationship, a domestic partnership that twisted itself into a slow-burning trauma, I graduated from wine to vodka.

He liked fantasies.

He liked to dominate.

He liked me soft, sweet, and silent — which is what I became when I was drunk enough to forget myself.

I wasn’t a woman making love.

I was a body performing.

And the wildest part?

I smiled.

I f*cking smiled through it.

Because that’s what good women do, right?

We smile and we serve and we sacrifice.

We surrender without ever being asked if we’re safe.

But I wasn’t safe.

I wasn’t home in my skin.

I wasn’t anywhere near the altar of my own pleasure.

I had mistaken submission for connection.

Numbing for intimacy.

And pretending for love.

But then something broke.

Or maybe it cracked.

Maybe it had been cracking for years.

Maybe it was the moment I looked in the mirror after sex one night and didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

Mascara smudged.

Smile fading.

Soul gone.

I realized:

This isn’t it.

This isn’t sex.

This isn’t love.

This isn’t me.

And slowly — like steam rising from something sacred that had been frozen for too long — I began to thaw.

I stopped drinking before sex.

I stopped giving my body to people who hadn’t earned my nervous system’s trust.

I stopped pretending that pain was pleasure.

I stopped making excuses for being spiritually vacant while physically engaged.

And I started learning something wild and untamed and revolutionary:

Sober sex isn’t boring.

Sober sex is a f*cking resurrection.

Let me tell you what it looks like now.

Now that I’m not numbing.

Now that I’m not performing.

Now that I’m not faking my way through connection.

Today, I make love to a man I actually trust.

A man who sees me, not just my body, but my essence.

A man I don’t need to sedate myself to surrender to.

I don’t need the buzz of alcohol to quiet my mind.

I don’t need anything to “get in the mood.”

Because now, my mood is me.

My desire is mine.

My yes is conscious.

My no is honored.

I choose.

And when I choose to f*ck, I do it all the way.

Present. Open. Awake.

When Craig touches me, I don’t dissociate.

I drop in.

I breathe.

I meet his eyes.

I let myself feel the rising heat and don’t run from it.

I don’t shrink.

I don’t fade.

I arrive.

And let me tell you something most people won’t:

Sober sex is hot as hell.

Not because it’s wild and acrobatic.

Not because it looks like porn.

Not because I’ve learned to unlock some tantric secret.

But because it’s real.

And real turns me on more than any fantasy ever did.

It’s the way he touches me with reverence.

The way I say “yes” with every cell in my body.

The way I can cry during orgasm and not feel broken.

The way I don’t second-guess my pleasure.

It’s the breath on my neck.

The grip on my hips.

The silence that says, “I’m with you. All of you.”

That’s what sober sex gives you:

The permission to be fully here.

To feel everything.

To hold nothing back.

There’s no filter.

No mask.

No fog.

Just skin.

Breath.

Pulse.

Truth.

And that kind of sex?

That kind of sex heals.

I don’t need to be the perfect partner anymore.

I don’t need to open when my soul says no.

I don’t need to offer myself as a sacrifice to someone else’s fantasy.

Now, I offer my body as a gift — not a transaction.

Now, I make love like a woman who’s home in her skin.

Now, I say “yes” only when my heart is in the room with me.

To the woman reading this who’s still pouring the wine:

I see you.

To the woman who’s still faking it to feel loved:

I hear you.

To the one who wants to want — but doesn’t know how to begin:

You are not broken.

You’re just disconnected.

And disconnection isn’t a flaw.

It’s a wound.

And wounds can heal.

You don’t need wine.

You don’t need weed.

You don’t need to shrink, sedate, or smile through your own suppression.

You just need to feel.

To breathe.

To say yes when you mean it.

And to stop when you don’t.

This is what sober sex gave me:

My body back.

My voice back.

My pleasure back.

My fire.

And baby…

I burn better sober.

This is why I wrote the book.

Not to shame you.

Not to purify you.

Not to fix you.

But to tell you:

You don’t have to disappear to be desirable.

Sober Sex drops July 1

$12.99 for first readers

You in?

Let’s make this the summer we stop faking it — and start feeling everything.

Follow me on IG for all the little extras and sneak peaks.

As always loving you from here,

Rene Schooler