'My friends assumed I must have fallen in love. But the reason I was so radiant was that I'd decided to be celibate'

I was 27 when I realised I no longer wanted sex. I had been in a relationship for five years with a very intense man. He would wake me in the night for earnest discussions and was very demanding in lots of other ways. I yearned for solitude; most of all, I wanted to sleep alone.

When we broke up, I felt a huge sense of relief. For the first time in years, I felt free. Within days, I looked more relaxed, my eyes shone and I was calmer. Back in Paris, friends asked if I'd met someone new and assumed I must have fallen in love. But the reason I was so radiant was that I'd decided to be celibate.

This change of heart was very much linked to my past. As a young teenager I was obsessed with sex: to be held in a man's arms would confirm that I was a woman. I didn't think any further than that. So I met a man in a nightclub and went to his hotel room the next day. I was naive, and when it all became a reality – that he did want to have sex with me – I was scared. I tried to explain I was unsure, that I'd made a mistake, but I still felt under pressure to sleep with him.

That experience affected me deeply, and although I went on to have an active and enjoyable sex life when I was older, 14 years later I needed to return to the safe world where sex was just in my imagination or dreams.

I knew my friends would find my decision baffling and I didn't want them to keep asking questions, so at first I invented a boyfriend in Australia.

I was perfectly happy being in my own company for the first time in my adult life. My senses felt truly alive. I didn't feel lonely; I just enjoyed life without the complications of another person. I went to the cinema on my own to watch Robert Redford films; he became my ideal man. But if I had met him, I wouldn't have wanted anything to happen. It would have broken my dream.

After a while, I confessed to my friends that I had decided to be on my own, and they immediately set to work finding someone for me. They bombarded me with advice: wear shorter skirts, make eye contact with men, don't sound too clever. They set me up on blind dates and were indignant when I didn't play along. My relationship status became the favourite subject for discussion. Was I a lesbian? Was I frigid? But having to insist that I was happy being celibate made me uncomfortable. I didn't constantly harangue married friends about how often they had sex, so why should they ask me?

The pressure to be in a relationship, to have sex regularly, can be, as I discovered, overwhelming at times. To resist is an affront. Even the psychotherapist I was seeing wanted me to meet someone. She felt that my celibacy was a problem, when I saw it as a strength.

Looking back, I realise that I was waiting. I wanted to meet that rare person whom I could totally trust, who was as exciting as my fantasies. I was also waiting to come to terms with my teenage self, to resolve that unhappy sexual experience.

Initially, I thought I would be single for a few months, but as the years went by I realised that I would be happy on my own for ever. I felt frustrated at times, but it didn't make me want to have sex with anyone. Men stopped flirting with me and yet I still felt like a sexual being.

Twelve years on, when I was completely content with my situation, something changed. Through a chance encounter, I met a man. I trusted him immediately and he made me feel totally safe.

Before we made love, I was terrified that I would look ridiculous, that I had forgotten how to do it – after such a long time of abstinence, the actual mechanics of having sex appears bizarre – but when the moment came, I had forgotten nothing.

It was only a brief affair, and since then I have been both single and in a relationship. When I am an old woman looking back on my life, I will remember my time of celibacy as one of my happiest. It was so important to me, and so misunderstood by society. I want people to understand that being celibate can be as nourishing and fulfilling as being in a relationship.

• As told to Emily Cunningham

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