We treat lubricant like it’s a failure. We think of it as a medical intervention for the aging or a “fix” for something that isn’t working right. That is pure, unadulterated cowardice.
Choosing the right lubricant isn’t just about chemistry or “sexual health” in some sterile, clinical sense. It’s about agency. It’s about deciding that you aren’t going to settle for “tolerable” when you could have “transcendent.” It’s about admitting that your body isn’t a machine, and sometimes, the gears need a little help to turn a difficult day into a decent night.
The Shame of the “Dry” Bed
Most of my clients, especially the women, come to me with this deep-seated belief that if they aren’t “wet enough,” they aren’t interested enough. They think their arousal is a direct reflection of their partner’s performance or their own “correctness” as a sexual being.
This is where the nervous system comes in. Your body is a finely tuned survival instrument. If you’ve had a stressful day, if you’re worrying about the rent, or if you’re just slightly dehydrated, your body is going to prioritize your vital organs over your reproductive plumbing. You can be head-over-heels in love and still be as dry as a desert.
When you ignore that dryness—when you “power through”—you’re training your brain to associate sex with pain. You’re triggering a “freeze” response. Your muscles tighten, your breath shallows, and suddenly, the thing that was supposed to be a connection becomes a chore.
Using lube is an act of rebellion against that shame. It’s saying, “I want to be here, and I’m going to make sure my body is comfortable enough to actually enjoy it.” It’s a way of taking the pressure off the “spontaneous” myth and putting it back onto the reality of pleasure.
The Water-Based First Date
Most people start with water-based lube. It’s the “safe” choice. It’s what you find at the grocery store next to the vitamins. It’s inexpensive, it’s condom-safe, and it’s generally easy to clean up.
But water-based lube is a lot like a first date: it’s great for about forty-five minutes, and then things start to get a little awkward.
Because it’s water-based, your body absorbs it. Or it evaporates. You’re in the middle of something great, and suddenly everything feels tacky, like you’ve been glued together. You find yourself reaching for the bottle again and again, which can break the rhythm.
If you’re going the water-based route, you need to look at the ingredients. Not all of them are created equal. Some are loaded with glycerin and parabens. Glycerin is a sugar, and if you’re prone to yeast infections, putting sugar near your sensitive bits is like throwing a party for a bunch of uninvited guests. You’ll have a great night, and then you’ll spend three days regretting your life choices.
Look for “clean” water-based options. No, I don’t mean “organic-hippie” clean, I mean “biologically compatible” clean. You want something that mimics your body’s natural pH. You want a lube that doesn’t feel like a science experiment gone wrong.
The Silicone Marathon
Then there’s silicone. If water-based is a first date, silicone is the person you take on a weekend getaway to a cabin with no cell service.
Silicone doesn’t evaporate. It doesn’t absorb into the skin. It stays slippery until the heat death of the universe. It’s the gold standard for anyone who wants to take their time—who wants to explore every inch of the map without worrying about the “tackiness” factor.
But there’s a cost. Silicone is a pain in the ass to clean up. You’ll need soap. Real soap. Not just a quick rinse. And if you’re using silicone toys, you can’t use silicone lube. They’ll bond together in a way that essentially melts your expensive vibrator. It’s a chemical reaction that is as permanent as a bad tattoo.
Silicone is also the king of shower sex. Water-based lube disappears the second it hits the spray, but silicone sits on top of the water. It’s the only way to make the shower feel like a spa instead of a slip-and-fall hazard.
I’ve seen relationships where the switch to silicone changed everything. It allowed them to slow down. It removed the “timer” on their intimacy. When you aren’t racing against evaporation, you can actually breathe. You can look at each other. You can be human.
The Kitchen Cabinet Remedy
We’ve all been there. You’re at a beach rental or a hotel, the mood is right, and you realize you forgot the bottle. Someone suggests coconut oil.
“It’s natural!” they say. “It smells like a vacation!”
Look, I love coconut oil for a stir-fry as much as the next person, but putting it in your bedroom comes with a massive warning label. Oil dissolves latex. If you are using condoms for protection or birth control, and you introduce oil-based lube, you are playing a very dangerous game of Russian Roulette. The latex will degrade, the condom will break, and your “relaxing” night will turn into an emergency pharmacy run.
Beyond that, oils—even the “natural” ones—can mess with your internal flora. Your body is a delicate ecosystem. Introducing heavy oils can trap bacteria and lead to infections that are anything but sexy.
If you’re in a monogamous relationship, not using condoms, and your skin handles it well, oil-based lubes can be incredibly luxurious. They have a weight and a warmth to them that water and silicone can’t match. But you have to know the risks. You have to be an adult about the trade-offs.
The Power Dynamics of the Bottle
Who buys the lube? In a lot of my coaching sessions, this is a surprisingly contentious point.
If one person is always the one bringing the “supplies,” it can start to feel like they are the “manager” of the sex life. It feels like they’re the ones doing the work to make the sex tolerable.
If you’re the one who usually waits for your partner to bring up the dryness, I want you to step up. Buy a high-quality bottle. Not the cheap stuff. The $30 stuff. The stuff that looks like a fancy skincare product.
When you bring a high-end lubricant into the room, you’re signaling that pleasure is a priority. You’re saying, “I care about how this feels for us.” You’re moving it from an “emergency fix” to a “luxury upgrade.”
There is a psychological shift that happens when lube becomes part of the “play” rather than a pause in it. I tell couples to incorporate the application into their foreplay. Don’t make it a clinical interruption where someone has to fumble in a nightstand drawer while the other person waits. Make it a massage. Make it a conversation. Use it to explore parts of the body that usually get ignored.
By making the lube part of the “yes,” you remove the sting of the “no” that often comes when things get too dry.
The Menopause Conversation
We have to talk about the “Big M.”
There is so much silence around the way aging affects our bodies, particularly for women. When the estrogen starts to dip, the tissue changes. It gets thinner. It gets less resilient. Arousal takes longer, and the “natural” moisture becomes a rare visitor.
This isn’t a tragedy. It’s just an evolution.
I’ve seen women in their fifties and sixties rediscover their sex lives because they finally gave themselves permission to use “too much” lube. They stopped trying to be the twenty-year-old version of themselves and started being the version of themselves that knows exactly what they need.
In this phase of life, a high-quality silicone lube or a dedicated vaginal moisturizer is as essential as a good pair of walking shoes. It’s about maintenance. It’s about longevity. If you want to keep the lights on in the bedroom for the next thirty years, you have to be willing to invest in the infrastructure.
And to the partners of people going through this: don’t you dare make them feel “old” for needing it. If you’re lucky enough to be with someone as they age, you should be honored to learn their new map. Be the person who buys the good stuff. Be the person who says, “Let’s take as long as we need.”
Intimacy is an Experiment
Ultimately, the “right” lubricant is the one that makes you forget you’re using it. It’s the one that allows you to stay in the moment.
Don’t be afraid to have a “lube bar.” Have a water-based one for quickies and toys. Have a silicone one for the weekends. Have a natural oil-based one for the nights when you’re just doing massage.
Experimentation is the antidote to the “grind” of long-term relationships. It’s a way of saying that you are still curious about each other.
I once had a client who was so embarrassed by her “collection” that she hid it in a shoebox under the bed. I told her to put it on the nightstand. “Treat it like a trophy,” I said. “It’s a sign that you’re a person who values their own pleasure.”
She did it. And her husband, instead of being weirded out, was intrigued. It opened up a conversation they hadn’t had in ten years. They started talking about what they actually liked, instead of what they thought they should like.
The Late-Night Truth
The ice is gone. The bar is closed. And we’re left with the truth.
Sex is complicated. Bodies are unpredictable. And the world is a lot louder and more stressful than we ever thought it would be when we were kids.
You don’t owe anyone a “natural” performance. You don’t owe anyone a “frictionless” experience. You owe yourself the comfort and the joy of a body that feels good.
Stop being a martyr to the “dry rub.” Stop letting shame dictate the terms of your intimacy. Go online or go to the store, read the labels, and buy something that feels like silk.
When you’re back in that room, and the lights are low, and the world has finally gone quiet, you’ll be glad you did. Because in that moment, when the friction is gone and the connection is real, you’ll realize that the “fix” wasn’t for a broken body. The fix was for a broken idea of what sex is supposed to be.
Sex isn’t a performance. It’s a practice. And every good practice deserves the right tools.
Go find yours.