Like Fingernails Down a Chalkboard
The story of my sex drought.
I won’t bore you with the exact amount of time that it’s been since I’ve gotten properly laid, but, suffice it to say, it’s been a very long time. My drought is beginning to feel like a world I have grown accustomed to, yet do not want to be a part of. Sort of like someone stuck in Armageddon. No compass guiding the direction: What’s up? What’s down? Or like a desert where there is no water. No water for miles, tongue sticking out, salivating.
Sex consumes most of my thoughts. I dream about it. And sometimes I almost dream about it, and those are the dreams that make me really mad. When the going gets good, just as I’m about to Go There, I wake up and find myself pouting, Noooooooooooo! Go back to sleep! Let me just go back to sleep!, I tell myself and I punch my pillow (I give great hook). But it never happens, being that I am one of those people who, once up, can’t fall into slumber again.
I hear about sex all the time, which makes it worse. I see it on television, hear about it on the radio, see it in pictures, in photographic evidence; it is in the banter that some friends say to one another, in conversations between strangers, in the music playing in my headphones, in the devious smile someone makes after getting a vibrating text. I hear about everyone else getting laid and wonder when it’s going to be my turn. Can I take a number, please? It’s like I’ve been sitting at the DMV all day, wait-, wait-, waiting for my number to be called to no avail. Beep. Another number is called that isn’t mine. And I sit, impatient, burying my face in a book, frustrated.
On a date with a guy earlier in the year, he asked me what my new year’s resolution was. I said it was finding a makeup application that wouldn’t smudge. We were just getting to know each other, and I’m a lady (most of the time) but in my head, as I looked at his face I thought, It’s also to have sex. My new year’s resolution is to have some sex. With a man. And not my hand in this new year. You dig? I didn’t say that out loud, but I was thinking it as I smiled demurely while he took a drink from his slushie and a twinkle formed in his eye. We never made it to a next date. But he could have been The One. The One for The Sex. Hi, Mister. Do you want to say Hello to my panties? It could be a party up in here. Confetti! Lights! Flashing!
My appetite is now voracious, and biologically, I am supposedly in my sexual prime as a woman, so you can imagine how very unnerving all of this is for me. I think, see, hear, and smell it all the time, whether it’s in my imagination, in my daydreams, or in some other voyeuristic capability. The weirdest things become turn-ons.
One of my girlfriends told me she was going to have a meltdown because it had been so long for her and I asked how long it had been exactly and she said a month and I wanted to cry. Cry my tears into a wineglass. Polish the bottle off and then cry some more. Cabernet sauvignon has never sounded so depressing.
All I know is that when it finally happens (it has to, right?!… right?!), I may actually hurt someone. I will need a few days locked away in order to keep getting a steady dosage and well, it only makes sense because hello, it’s been so long. IV hook up for a hook up? Maybe.
I will break him. Whoever he is.
Once, driving past a church, I prayed to God. I prayed to God to let me get laid soon. I realize that this is probably not what most people pray about and while I don’t consider myself very religious, I looked up to the sky and said, Higher Power… if you love me, you will let this happen for me. I have been good. I have been calm. I have been patient. I even donated to that charity. Please, please, dear Lord, let me get laid. Forever and ever, Amen, while crossing myself. And while a thunder cloud didn’t make a violent sound in the sky, I know He heard me. He must have. I’ve been asking Him for months! In fact, He probably hears me now and rolls his eyes. Maybe this is all a test. That would be cruel, to test someone’s libido like that.
So in dreams, prayers, on television, in passersby, sex is all around me. And the question is, when do I get to be all around it?
I feel like I am going to have a party when I finally get laid. Drinks all around, everyone!, I will loudly proclaim, as a round of shots goes out with some Abba playing in the background. And while everyone’s busy taking that shot, I’ll have escaped out the door to keep celebrating, locked away. So the tab’s on them.