There’s a sensation I felt this weekend. No, more than that. It was a sort of moment, an atmosphere, a sort of capsule of feeling that doesn’t make sense out of context and where you kind of need all of the pieces or it just wouldn’t be the same.
You might have noticed I’ve been a little sporadic of late and, guess what, so has my sex drive. So it was noticeable when it emerged fully formed, albeit briefly, this weekend. You see there’s a difference between sort of a subsistence sex drive, sufficient to have a regular wank and sex will occur if circumstances conspire. But there’s a big difference between that and a sort of more pervasive sexiness. A headspace where, irrespective of whether anything directly sexual is happening, there’s a feeling both that it could, and that it’s not a big deal.
At one point I was living in a really rubbish basement apartment. It was small, poorly lit and the kitchen was literally in a cupboard. I wasn’t happy. Then I erected a few of the cheapest bookcases IKEA had to offer and dragged my books from their hiding place in a pile of boxes and put them on the shelves. It was transformative, this shallow grave I’d been wallowing in became a cosy burrow. There’s something I find incredibly relaxing about being surrounded by books and I think it’s the subconscious signal that, even if I’m not reading, that this is a space where there is time to read, if you choose.
I guess it was a similar feeling this weekend. Fucking wasn’t happening, but as I wandered into the kitchen to make a fresh cup of tea, I felt like it could. My cock was stiff, brushing against the loose fabric of my pyjama bottoms, I had a fresh mug of chai, a good book and time.
Oh, and some wonderful perverts sending me suggestive messages, which probably also helped.