When “it would have been nice if…” becomes a pattern
Tracy Playle shares her reflections on breaking the silence and asking for what you need, instead of reflecting on what didn’t happen
Lately, I’ve been leaving sexual encounters feeling... underwhelmed. Not angry. Not even heartbroken. Just quietly, achingly unsatisfied. Numb. Disappointed. Ignored.
There was the guy who thought “a quickie” was better than nothing.
The one who promised oral and eagerly received it, but never returned the favor.
The one I wanted morning sex with - but didn’t ask until he was already almost in the shower.
And then there was that weekend.
We’d talked about sex beforehand - not vaguely, but directly. There was anticipation, even planning. I flew a long way. Packed the good underwear (well, all of it is good with me, but you get the point). Went through painful waxing preparations. Brought toys. We talked about what we wanted, what we’d explore, how it might unfold. But that was weeks and weeks beforehand. The chat died off. I started to guess that so had any interest. But then it came back again, and things were said…
And then, almost nothing.
Maybe two minutes of play the whole weekend. A quick kiss that really led nowhere. A moment of touch that evaporated before it could land. A less than vanilla experience with someone that I’d previously had incredible kinky sex with.
It’s such a disorienting feeling - to have discussed desire, consent, intention - and then to sit in silence while nothing happens. To wonder: do I ask again? Do I remind them? Do I risk sounding like a sex pest for wanting the thing we already agreed to? Do I risk asking, and face being rejected?
So instead, I swallowed it. I didn’t want to be “too much.” I didn’t want to push. I told myself to relax, to be patient, to be understanding. But really, I was quietly and catastrophically shrinking. I felt small, ignored, unwanted, disregarded. I started to believe that he was totally repulsed by me.
When talking isn’t enough
In respectful kink, you talk before you touch. You name your limits, your curiosities, your yeses and your maybes. You make the invisible visible.
But what happens when the talking has already happened - and then nothing follows?
That’s the question that lingered after that weekend. How do we voice our unmet desires without feeling needy, greedy, or pushy? How do we say “I still want this” without sounding like we’re demanding it?
Because that’s exactly how I felt: caught between wanting and waiting. Between permission and shame. And the act of ultimately saying “I would have liked us to have played together this weekend” resulted in me later feeling sex shamed and like I had overstepped a boundary.
I’ve struggled to process this, and I’m seeing that there’s a big difference between asking for connection and pressuring for sex. One is an invitation. The other is an insistence.
What I wanted wasn’t the act. It was just the intimacy, the aliveness, the spark of being chosen and met. Even just the connection and feeling seen. I didn’t need him to perform. I needed him to show up. Instead he sat on his phone most of the weekend messaging other people. While I waited and wilted. And while I mostly didn’t say a single damn thing about my disappointment until it was too late and the breakdown was irreparable.
The language of desire
Desire isn’t greedy. It’s human.
But many of us, especially those socialized to be “easygoing” or “low maintenance,” have been trained to mute our wants. We fear that naming desire makes us demanding, or that revisiting a conversation means we’re begging for attention. We might also be so wrapped up in consent that we stop asking for our needs to be met at all. We sit at red and wait to be given a green light instead of asking whether there might be a green light already there.
The truth is, we can re-enter a conversation about sex with curiosity, not accusation. We can say:
“I’m feeling a bit of distance - can we reconnect?”
“I’d still love to play, if that feels good for you.”
“Is something feeling different for you this weekend?”
Those questions keep the door open without forcing it. They bring us back into collaboration instead of confusion.
Because silence doesn’t protect anyone’s comfort - it just protects the awkwardness.
Turning “it would have been nice” into “this is what I want”
That weekend taught me something I didn’t want to learn the hard way: while we know that consent is a living conversation, so is desire. And the line to navigate between those is fraught with risk and confusion. At one and the same time I respected a boundary, and yet I also wasn’t clear at all where or what the boundary was. And in doing so I diminished my own needs and desires. The risk is that we let conversations about consent totally overshadow conversations about desire, instead of allowing both a equal playing field.
I’ve learned at the cost of that connection (and the expense of a very pricey weekend) that if I don’t speak up when things go quiet, I’m participating in my own disappointment. I’m perpetuating it.
Next time, I want to find the courage to say, “Hey, I’m still here. I’d love to touch. I’d love to play. What’s going on for you?” Not as pressure - but as presence. As honesty.
Because every time we voice a desire, we make room for truth - whatever that truth turns out to be. In my case I was so scared of the truth that I didn’t want to make any room for it. I just wanted to pretend it wasn’t there.
Sometimes it opens the door to connection. Sometimes it closes it for good. But at least then, we’re living in clarity, not confusion.
That, I think, is where respectful kink really begins - in the courage to ask again, softly, without shame.