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<div class="track"><img alt="" src="http://hits.guardian.co.uk/b/ss/guardiangu-feeds/1/H.15.1/58053?ns=guardian&pageName=My%3AArticle%3A1233811&ch=Life+and+style&c4=Relationships+%28Life+and+style%29%2CDating+%28Life+and+style%29%2CLife+and+style&c6=Hephzibah+Anderson&c8=1233811&c9=Article&c10=Feature&c11=Life+and+style&c13=&c25=&c30=content&h2=GU%2FLife+and+style%2FRelationships" width="1" height="1" /></div>After yet another failed relationship, Hephzibah Anderson took a vow of chastity. She recalls 12 months of dates, temptation, frustration - and excusesWhen you decide to give up sex and begin a year of chastity, it's not something you rush to tell people. In our super-sexualised society, opting out feels like the last conceivable taboo. For a while, I didn't even tell my friends, and when I did tentatively step out of my chaste closet, I found that others felt licensed to ask all sorts of questions that they'd ordinarily have kept to themselves. "What do you do?" wondered one girl, squinting at me in disbelief. "Masturbation - is that allowed?" an older male friend wanted to know. "Is it because of me?" asked a guy who'd once invited me home with him.The question I heard least frequently was the only one I'd really been anticipating: why? Plenty of people, I came to realise, have thought about hopping off the sexual merry-go-round. Sex, and its pursuit, seems to have become such a blood sport, its rules so confusing and its standards so exacting, that it is hard not to wonder occasionally whether it's worth it. At the same time, sexiness is so ubiquitous it has become a bit of a turn-off. One of my motivations for embracing chastity was a sense that sex had grown impersonal. Sometimes my decision to have sex seemed to be based more on what was appropriate to the moment than on what was right for me. At a certain point in certain scenarios, a part of me abdicated and gave in to the inevitable. Tipsily noticing that it was after midnight and I was far from home, say, in a dwindling group that happened to include a man I'd found myself in bed with some time before. But whichever bit of me had abdicated, it was never my heart, and I secretly dreaded that I might finally learn to separate sex from emotion. I'd turned 30 a few months before taking my vow, and among other things was looking for a fresh way of pursuing love into that new decade. And, yes, it had to do with numbers as well - those tallies we each carry around with us. Mine is a greater number than I'd like and contains some names I'd rather forget. But mostly, my vow was prompted by two events. The first was the unexpected sighting of Dan, my university boyfriend, my first, with his arm slung over the shoulders of another girl, steering her into De Beers. When I broke up with Dan, I had thought my curiosity would be fulfilled by another Dan, but that was not how it turned out. I became a journalist, and charged through my 20s, regarding my singleness as part of the deal. If anything connected my dating experiences, it was a profound disconnectedness. The second event was an ill-advised fling with Jake, a slightly older acquaintance who had a German girlfriend he had no intention of leaving. For a while, the sex blotted out everything, including the fact that I was sleeping with another woman's boyfriend, until finally he uttered the words: "I'm not in love with you." While no man since Dan had said he loved me, none had explicitly told me he didn't love me. Initially I felt numbed. Then there were tears. Had I really been alone in feeling there was something deeper between us? Once again I'd gone to bed with someone who wasn't in love with me; I had consistently mistaken casual hook-ups for rose-tinted beginnings. My mother, an increasingly reluctant if still sympathetic listener to my tales of romantic woe, had honed her response to a single-note lament: "You sleep with these men too soon." An artist who came of age in the 60s, my mother is no prude. Her refrain sounded deeply unfashionable, yet I couldn't help thinking she may be right. I'd had enough sex without love; maybe it was time to look for love without sex? There seemed just one way to test it: a year of chastity. It was a drastic response, but in the weepy aftermath of one more failed liaison, that was what made it so appealing. My year would start not from the time I'd last had sex, but from the day I made my decision. After all, I've had dry spells that have lasted longer than 12 months. It was the choosing that was crucial. Might it change the kind of men I attracted and my response to them? Would it enable me to fall back in love with romance? Would I be able to last 12 months?September "Beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes," Thoreau cautioned, but today I am shopping for a chaste wardrobe. The clothes I pick out are generous and tough, nothing flimsy or flyaway. In my newly chaste state, my instinct is to wrap up and hide away.It may seem strange that, having made such a personal, private decision, I'm seeking to solidify it by altering my outward appearance, but for now it seems an apt uniform, unlikely to give anyone the wrong idea, myself included. It's only when you've sworn off sex you begin to notice that it is everywhere. It's in the swing of a waiter's hips, the tilt of a head, the gaze you know you shouldn't hold. I make a date, feeling as if I need to test my vow in order to prove its existence. But the man sitting across from me isn't Jake and, because of that, I'm not interested. At the end of the night I call a taxi, dropping my date at the nearest tube station with a peck on the cheek. Chastity will be easy, I think, and my heart sinks a little.October My new wardrobe and I are packed off to the continent to cover a trade conference. Everyone knows what happens at conferences away from home - sex is what happens - and I find that, despite myself, I'm not exempt from those impulses. A man has been flitting in and out of my thoughts. Each evening, I catch myself looking for him in the bar. Paradoxically, he seems like precisely the kind I would never have noticed, pre-vow. He is the archetypal quiet guy in the corner. We find ourselves at a party and, as the band of revellers thins, I can see how one thing might lead to another. I'm fairly certain that my vow is safe, that I wouldn't let things get that far, but can't help noting how much I'm enjoying playing out this scenario in my head. December My Christmas party card is almost empty this year, but there is one I'm curious about. Its sender is N. We met at a music festival three or four years ago, and though we've not seen one another since (he's British but lives in New York), we've made periodic attempts to. He's my age, a rock guitarist, and is the only man I've yet seen almost - almost - able to carry off a ponytail. N is rather more attractive than I remember, in a suit. Meanwhile, I am wearing a blouse, its buttons done up all the way to the top, and a modest vest beneath. "You're looking very - buttoned up," he tells me. It is the first time anyone has really commented on my changed attire and, despite my careful buttoning and layering, I feel suddenly exposed. I leave the party alone.January I see in the new year quietly, with my sister, my mum and rounds of Manhattans. For my birthday, which falls in January, I don't throw a party; instead I gather friends in a bar. I'm taking solace in the fact that for the first time since I embarked upon this journey, I have some abstemious company. Most aren't drinking, a couple are on arcane detox diets and one seems to have given up speaking. I alone have given up sex. Later that month I go on a date with a neighbour. He lives so close, I end up back at his, locked in a kiss that sets me on a very dangerous downward slope. Making a hasty departure, I realise that, were I not vow-bound, I might have gone further. Of course it would have had something to do with desire, but also politeness, amenability, an urge to please - a whole host of misplaced sentiments.FebruaryIt's the annual Valentine's Day question: is it better to suffer alone and hope that it passes quickly, or in company and risk making too big a deal of it? Usually, my plan is to avoid it altogether, but this year I'm making a token effort and accompanying my sister to a singles party. The club slowly fills up. Mostly City folk, the men in their late 30s, early 40s, the women a few years younger. One guy walks up to me. "What kind of a man are you looking for?" he asks. There's no, "Who are you?" It's all, "Who do you want?" "Oh, you know - the usual," I tell him. "Smart, funny, handsome." I laugh, because it sounds an awful lot this evening. Even two out of the three feels a tall order, and it's lucky I'm not fussy about height. I haven't been to one of these events in such a long time, I can't tell if it's just my vow making me extra sensitised. Why am I putting myself through this?March I have arranged to meet Jake for lunch, but I've been waiting for him to cancel. Now here he is, his charm switched to full blaze and sleek as ever. What we talk about, I couldn't really tell you - he mentions his girlfriend at one point and I wince inwardly, but the rest of our chat is bland. And yet neither of us seems inclined to reach for a jacket or scrape back a chair. Instead, Jake makes a move of a kind that's altogether more familiar: he holds out his hands, palms up. My heart is racing, my entire body feels flushed. My hand stretches out and takes Jake's. Back at Jake's apartment, there's the matter of my vow. "I can't do this," I tell him. He freezes. "The project I mentioned earlier... It's a year-long vow of chastity." There, I've said it. My cheeks are hot - but now it's out in the open, it has given me an exhilarating taste of something entirely new: control. Jake is the first man I've told in these circumstances, and how does he react? He laughs. No, he guffaws. Despite the laughter, though, we have at last begun having the conversation that has been hanging over us, and it doesn't go at all as I'd expected. Now Jake is telling me that it had taken my absence to make him question what he'd told me. And then, I hear him say: "I love you a bit, I think." AprilWhen I signed up to this year, I couldn't resist thinking of all the things I'd have the time and energy for without sex and its breathless pursuit to occupy my spare hours. I'd write a novel, I'd learn Italian, I'd take up Pilates. Leaving aside the novel-writing and the Italian (I have), I've averaged a Pilates class every other week or three. This morning, I make it to the class, and while my body is in no danger of being mistaken for a temple, strolling home, I do notice that I'm inhabiting it in a way that it's easy to forget is possible if you lead a sedentary, desk-bound lifestyle that doesn't include treadmills or clubbing - or sex. Later, I find myself thinking about Jake. Every minute I spend with him risks making a mockery of my rules and, remembering how determined I was back when I made the vow, I arrange to meet him for a drink. "I had things I needed to say," I begin. "I thought you might," he replies. Even as I'd rehearsed them in my head, the things I wanted to say sounded hollow. Now, they seem so obvious that I can't bring myself to utter them. He isn't ready for another relationship, that much is clear. He's a coward about getting out of relationships, he says, but even if he finalised the break-up with his girlfriend, he wouldn't come immediately round on bended knee. May & June Eight months ago, if I'd had the nerve to squint ahead from the start line and imagine what this long year might be like, I'd have guessed that the hardest stretch would have been around now.Of course, I didn't know what I was giving up when I decided upon my vow. Removing sex from my life has left a bigger, differently shaped hole than I would have imagined. The physical withdrawal is acute at times, but it passes. Now I can see that sex was a distraction that allowed me to ignore pretty much everything else in my life that wasn't quite what it should or could have been. I became fixated on relationships to the exclusion of friendships, family, any sense of where I was headed. I meet Jake and tell him I've decided to move to New York for three months. It's something I've talked and talked about over the years and, while it would be gratifying to see a flash of something - surprise, if not regret - I find that I don't want him to dissuade me.JulyI haven't seen N for months, but he's tracked me down in New York, and over a series of emails we hatch a dinner plan. It is, I suspect, a date. I have never seen N in his adoptive country, I realise, and apparently we can talk in New York City. It isn't just him. I feel different, too. I can feel myself sitting up straighter. My smile is growing brighter. Here I am, having dinner with a man I can tell everything to without worrying about what he thinks, a man I like who seems to like me back. Of course, there is one component that is still missing. Afterwards, we kiss on the pavement and N walks me to a cab. Leaning into him is an unspeakable relief.A few days later I tell him about my vow. Whenever I've tried to yell snatches of it across social dins, filleting it for friends or finessing for would-be lovers, it has ended up mangled. I tell them what it isn't. And I blush. This time, it's easy. That surprises me, but not as much as N's response. He doesn't laugh. Instead, he tells me that earlier this year he'd also decided to stop, take a good look around him and, if necessary, wait for something more meaningful to come along. He doesn't use the word chaste, but nor does he flinch when I use it. August Increasingly, my vow has been prompting concern. "Nearly there. Thank heavens - I've been worried about you!" a girlfriend fretted the other day. Everyone agrees that I must be longing for it to be over, and in some ways I am. I have craved sex, but the longer I hold out, the more I want it only in the right circumstances. I almost wish I had longer to go. My vow has become less of a nun's habit than a child's security blanket. It's something to cling to - a reason to say no. During the course of this year, I have become attuned to other needs: the longing for true intimacy, the desire for a connection capable of enduring across distance and time. I have also let myself go. I've left my legs unwaxed and I haven't bothered to shave my armpits, and beneath it all, my relationship to my body has subtly changed - it feels more my own. In a strange way, it also feels, well, sexier. Possibly for the first time ever, I've no use for the validation of a stranger's appraising gaze. These triumphs make me all the warier of my vow's imminent expiration. Finally, 12 August dawns, the end of my self-imposed drought. N is going on tour and has tentatively tried to persuade me to go with him. I did think about it, but only for a second. We've arranged to meet for drinks later tonight, though, and, should the opportunity arise, I've decided not to sleep with him. It is very tempting, but I don't want to do so knowing that I won't see him for weeks. Among the past year's many revelations, I've had to admit a certain passivity in my past relationships. Making a choice to defer sleeping with N, then, seems as positive a full stop to my year as sleeping with him. It's the choice that counts. Epilogue Since then, things have been different and better. I did eventually get together with someone. The relationship didn't last, but it lasted longer than any had in a long while, and we were both serious about it from start to finish. There has been one more relationship, which lasted another six months. I've heard the words, "I love you" from one man, and said them back - to another. Something else has changed, too. These relationships haven't become my life's defining drama in the way that they once would have been. Instead, I've spent some time living in Paris and recently moved to the seaside. I've rekindled old friendships and discovered that I enjoy gardening - in window boxes, at least. In an ironic coda, I've lately found myself leading an unintentionally chaste life. I'm in a dry spell.<div class="related" style="float: left; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><ul><li><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/relationships">Relationships</a></li><li><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/dating">Dating</a></li></ul></div><div class="terms"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk">guardian.co.uk</a> © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our <a href="http://users.guardian.co.uk/help/article/0,,933909,00.html">Terms & Conditions</a> | <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/help/feeds">More Feeds</a></div>
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