Spring is loose upon the land and the bodies of those who occupy it. Critters and plants are preparing for their spring mate-a-palooza and friends are finding people to hook up with. And I’m happy for them, truly, but it tends to emphasize for me what I am not doing.
I have been giving myself time to heal and process and telling myself that there would still be some sex left over for me once I got back to wanting it again. I thought I’d be taking more time, figured I could distract myself with projects and deadlines and stuff.
Which is what I’ve been doing but it’s getting harder (heh, heh). I have wonderfully deep and intimate friendships full of emotion and intellect. There is no doubt those relationships are necessary to my health and well-being. But I miss sex. My body is hungry for it, my mind lonely for it.
I crave the intensity of connecting with someone physically. I miss the pull, the tang, the deepwet need of being attracted to someone and knowing they feel the same way about me. I miss teasing, flirting, revealing. I want the privilege of skin-on-skin. I want to honor and worship at the alter of their body and feel their enjoyment of mine.
When I write sex scenes, it hurts, my bits stinging from that bittersweet knowledgememory of the transcendent, down and dirty fill-my-holes-and-I’ll-fill-yours animal need. When I read about sex or hear about the barest hint of it, my mindmouthsex fill up with the tastesmellsensation of heatwetsexymoaninglust.
My body, so well made for fucking, feels severely under utilized. The hornies are becoming stronger and stronger and harder to push away. I want to be someone’s stud, someone’s sexy daydream, someone’s inappropriately timed wet dream in the middle of a meeting at work. And I want to hear about it, read breathless texts and feel my own heat rise as the words tumble by.
I want to get my sexy on.