14 FEBRUARY 2025 | Giorgia Galasso
Let’s talk about what happens in our brains after sex, shall we? Because for all the poetry, art, and wildly unrealistic rom-coms dedicated to love and lust, at the end of the day, we are just a collection of neurons firing off like a Fourth of July fireworks show. Science, as always, has explanations for everything, even the things we’d rather pretend are mystical.
For men, after they cross the finish line, hit the high note, roll the credits, there’s a massive drop in dopamine, the pleasure chemical that made them think they were invincible just moments ago. In its place? A surge of prolactin, which is responsible for that sudden, overwhelming urge to roll over and fall into a sleep so deep they might as well be in a coma. Oxytocin, the so-called “cuddle hormone,” is released too, but it’s no match for prolactin’s sedative effects. In other words, he’s biologically programmed to pass out.
Women, on the other hand, get their own hit of oxytocin, but it lands differently. Unlike men, who can often separate the act from the emotion, at least at first, oxytocin makes women feel closer, more bonded. It’s the same hormone released during childbirth, the one that basically whispers to the brain, This is important. You should care about this person. You should stick around. Evolution is nothing if not persistent.
But here’s the kicker, none of this matters when you meet the right person. You could wait months or jump in headfirst sometimes literally, and the result will be the same. When it clicks, it clicks. When the chemistry is there, no amount of science or psychology will convince you otherwise. And when it’s not? Well, you can read all the research papers you want, but the spark just won’t be there.
I once had a one-night stand with a man who, within the first ten minutes of knowing me, told me he believed in past lives and that, in his, he had been a French revolutionary (unclear which one, but he was confident he had been guillotined for “his beliefs”). He had a tattoo of a dolphin on his ankle, drank an old-fashioned with two cherries like it was a personality trait, and pronounced “croissant” with a level of commitment I was not prepared for. And yet, against all logic, I woke up the next morning thinking, Is this my person? Is this how it happens? Was he the love of my life? Well, I think not. But for a brief moment, I considered it, which just proves that hormones, exhaustion, and a well-mixed cocktail can make anyone seem like a viable candidate.
Which brings me to a question I ask myself often, does sex always start off good? And if it doesn’t, is there room for improvement? Because in a world that preaches instant gratification, we’re quick to cut people off if the first few rounds don’t feel like a scene from a French arthouse film. I’ve been guilty of this myself. Years ago, I was with a man for nearly a year whom I did not find sexually attractive. Our sex life was about as thrilling as a tax audit. On the rare occasions it happened, I found myself staring at the ceiling, mentally replacing him with literally anyone else, an ex, a stranger, a fictional character, Brad Pitt in Snatch, though to be fair, who wouldn’t?
Now, sex for me is non-negotiable. It’s the primal communication language that tells me whether we’ll be able to navigate the days, months, and possibly years to come. Some people say love is the universal language, but I’d argue it’s more like lust, body language, and a shared understanding of what works and what absolutely doesn’t. And if sex is a language, then let’s be honest, it’s a dialect that varies wildly from person to person.
If I close my eyes and try to recall all of my past lovers, what really stands out isn’t just the way they moved or how they kissed, it’s the sounds. Sex, in its purest form, is basically a symphony of unscripted human noises, and when you take a step back, it’s kind of hilarious. I’ve heard deep, guttural growls that sounded like they belonged to a man transforming into a werewolf. I’ve heard high-pitched gasps that made me wonder if I’d just unlocked some kind of ancient, forbidden pleasure frequency. I once had a man who, mid-moment, let out a sound so melodramatic I had to pause and ask if he was okay, he was, just “overcome.” Then there’s the ever-mysterious silent ones, who somehow manage to express every emotion with nothing but a sharp inhale and an intense stare. And let’s not forget the unintentional sounds, the unexpected knee cracks, the mattress squeaks that resemble a haunted house soundtrack, the deep sighs of effort that remind you both that cardio should probably be taken more seriously. Once, I was with someone who would hum, literally hum, as if he was scoring his own performance in real time. Another would blurt out fully formed sentences in the heat of the moment.
The point is, sex is weird. It’s deeply human and unpolished and sometimes downright funny. But that’s the beauty of it. If you can laugh together, if you can understand each other’s unique dialects of moans, sighs, and the occasional Oh my God, then you might just be speaking the same language after all.
And since we’re talking about love, let’s end with a little history lesson. Ever wondered who St. Valentine actually was? Spoiler, he wasn’t a chubby cherub with a bow and arrow. There are multiple legends, but the most popular one claims he was a Roman priest who secretly married couples despite an imperial ban on marriage. He was executed for his troubles (romance, but make it tragic), and centuries later, we celebrate his martyrdom with heart-shaped chocolates and overpriced roses. But here’s the thing, love isn’t just for one day a year. It’s not in grand gestures or in science-backed neurotransmitter releases. It’s in the mundane, the unexpected, and sometimes, in the sweaty, awkward, laughter-filled moments that aren’t remotely cinematic but feel like home.
So whether you’re in love, in lust, or just in bed with someone who claims they were once beheaded for the cause, let’s remember that passion has never needed a patron saint.
