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.