It’s Been 81 Days

It’s been 81 days since I last had sex. It wasn’t a problem before but then someone asked me exactly how long it’d been and I made the catastrophic mistake of figuring it out. Ha! And then I worked it out wrong – 111 days. (Well, 102 days at the time.) On Twitter too! I cringe. Counting has never been my strong point…

81 days, 102 days, 111 days, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it’s been too long.

The Director was the last man I let take me to his bed. The Director and that night I can’t remember. The last of many apparently great nights I can’t quite remember. Massively frustrating seeing as I’m sure we had great sex. I get miniature flashbacks of great sex. I just can’t remember all of it. Barely any of it in fact, so technically it feels as if it’s been a lot longer than 81 days.

Over the last year or so, sex has been something I could take or leave if it were put on the table. With all the medical drama and the heart-shattering split from a man I thought I was going to live happily ever after with, my sex life went down the pan. I turned it down with men who once would have made my pants moist by just looking at me, mostly because I just didn’t feel ‘in the mood’, but also because said medical drama made it difficult. At times, impossible.

But now… Now I’ve had the all-clear from the medical bullshit, and I’m just about over the breakup hill and getting ready to roll down the other side, my sex drive has come back. And with a vengeance too apparently. I’m now quite literally crawling the walls. My frustration has hit an all-time high.

I found myself waking up this morning to one hand already between my legs, clearly enjoying whatever dream I was having right before my eyes opened. Soaking wet, it only seemed right to finish the job and it didn’t take long. Whatever I’d been doing in my sleep, I’d clearly been doing for a while. Writhing around, still sleepy and eyes only half-opened, I had to bury my face in the pillow to stop my morning groans filling the house. It’s been a long time since the first thing I did in the morning was touch myself. It’s certainly a great way to put a smile on my face. Perhaps I should force myself to do it more often?

But even when my orgasm was as loud and as proud as it was this morning, it’s still not the same. It’s not a great substitute for lazy early-morning spooning, gyrating my butt back against his cock until the hard tip is pushing against my inevitably soaked underwear. It’s just not the same at all. It’s not about the orgasm anymore. I can do that whenever I like, and do regularly. I just want to spend hours playing with someone and I want someone to spend hours playing with me too. Preferably after that first three-minute quickie where I get some much-needed cock-induced relief and he gets to cum all over my face.

81 days. 

Maybe it’ll feel better if I tell myself I’m doing this voluntarily. It’s not a drought. I’m temporarily celibate.

Nope. It doesn’t feel better. It’s still been 81 days.