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Sex was never something I fully enjoyed. My first time ever having it was in a roller-skating rink bathroom, and it felt way more titillating than it did pleasurable. (Neither of us were out to our parents, and a public bathroom was the only viable place for two 15-year-old budding queers to do it.)

There were more encounters after that, of course - a sneaky hookup at summer camp, sex among the school theatre department's props - but the sex always felt like a chore. I was just having it merely to gain notoriety and fit the pop stereotype of a promiscuous gay man. After all, as a queer in Virginia, my only visible role models were on TV, and they were usually sashaying, sex-addicted party monsters like Jack from "Will and Grace."

I felt I needed to emulate guys like Jack to reach his level of acceptance among straight peers, so that's what I did. I never stopped to consider that sex could be enjoyable; I just thought it was something I was supposed to be having frequently.

Because of this, by the end of high school, I had a lot of unfulfilled needs - one of those needs being a desire for true intimacy. And when I couldn't find any sort of love that felt genuine, this destroyed my relationship with myself, pushing me toward depression.

I needed an escape. So, when I had my first drink at 17, I slipped and fell down an endless, gaping chasm of alcoholism. Drinking became my release from my troubles, and my journey of self-destruction began.

Sex quickly became an escape from my insecurities and a guaranteed source of validation. If I couldn't love myself, I could at least find temporary love - or some version of it - from a closeted finance bro in my bed. The problem, however, was that I could never remember the sex. Every sexual encounter I had was in the midst of a brownout or blackout. If I did enjoy the sex, I wouldn't have known I did.

Despite never quite deciding if I had liked sex or not, I continued to have it. I needed intimacy and human connection, and sex felt like the closest thing to real connection that I could get. But it ultimately didn't give me the connection I was seeking, and it was easier to get hammered and pretend like I was just a normal, horny queer, and not someone in dire need of a friend.

Even after college, as I began to realize that my alcoholism was an issue, I refused to stop. But there were only so many times that I could wake up on a street corner before realizing that I didn't love myself anymore. So, I quit drinking - or tried to, anyway. I quit drinking in 2013 and again in 20I5. But finally, when I went Sober once and for all in 2017, at age 28, I realized another thing: I'd just gone 11 years without once having sober sex.

The prospect of sober sex was daunting. So daunting, in fact, that I waited a whole year after going sober to try it. Yes, I had done the therapy and the work, but now that I was sober, I was worried that I wouldn't know what I was doing. What if I was actually bad at sex, and I'd only felt like a sex god because I had booze impairing my judgement? What if I still had some unexplored sex-related insecurities that would only come up in the moment?

But I couldn't wait forever, so finally, I downloaded Grindr. I decided that there must be something good about this whole sex thing, and I wanted to see if I could enjoy it now that I'd worked through some of my insecurity issues. I also felt that if I didn't have sober sex for the first time as an adult, then I'd never have it at all.

So, I hooked up with a guy from Grindr. And little did I know, I was in for the most memorable sex of my life.

The coordination part was easy: only an hour passed between my first message to Peter* and my eventual decision to invite him over. I wanted to keep this as casual as possible so that I wouldn't freak him out. He didn't need to know how much this meant to me.

When Peter entered my apartment, he had no inclination of how nervous I felt. Still, after he told me about his work (real estate broker) and his favorite movie ("My Best Friend's Wedding"), I swiftly leaned in to kiss him. Perhaps it was my anxiety leading me to act hastily, but I'd decided I wanted to be in control and initiate only the things I felt comfortable with.

Then, he started to go down on me. I could feel his tongue exploring every inch of my penis. I was starting to like what I was feeling, so I wanted to fully take advantage of the opportunity and go all the way and explore every aspect of sex. I decided to bottom.

I let him inside me - slowly, at first, and then with more abandon. And while I felt some initial pain and discomfort, I quickly realized how much I was enjoying myself. I could feel every sensation: every shift of his penis, every infinitesimal moment of new skin-on-skin contact. I could tell him, firmly and consciously, what I wanted - something I had never felt when I wasn't sober.

For the first time, I felt in control. I was fully present, basking in every individual sensation and savoring everything he did to my body. Every feeling, both physical and emotional, had been amplified, leading to what I consider to be one of the best sexual experiences of my life.

Of course, I went on to have more sober sexual experiences after Peter, but no other experience matched the same level of awe, novelty, and discovery as that first time. Fortunately since then, sober sex has improved in other ways. I've learned how to find a good rhythm in bed, and I can now appreciate the nuances of each new person's body - something beautiful I was never able to experience when I was drinking.

I unfortunately don't know where Peter is, but I often think of him. He still has no idea what he did for me, as he ghosted me shortly after. But it's not likely that I'll ever forget the most memorable sex of my life. And yes, I'm still sober - for myself and the sex.

*Names have been changed