Feels like I've cocooned back into the virgin I was. Now with the memory of many a hot night, and the reality of an empty bed, I am left with curiosity tempered with frustration.
My lust has died down. Like a sullen toddler, there's only so much of a fuss it can make till it needs to sleep. The time since I've been touched has made the wanting infrequent. So infrequent that it worries me.
In my detached narcissism the thing I find most fascinating is the disinterest. I just can't imagine that the trouble of romance, dating, and all matters of the heart are worth the payoff of the flesh. My small world feels comfortable, and until love wants to knock on my door.. I don't feel the need to look for it.
(When I imagine this inner world I picture it looking like Winnie the Pooh's house. Carved out of a giant tree in the Hundred Acre Wood. I wonder what that means... If I'm Pooh, then who's Piglet? Tigger? Roo? Non sequitur, sorry.)
I've forgotten the glorious high found in intimacy. That glimmering hope that comes with each first kiss has dimmed to the faintest ember.
The foot tapping, biological clock watching, cynic in me shrilly points out that time won't stand still even if I do.
One way or another, I have no sex to blog about. Just a diminishing sex drive and a dusty love life. Nothing here folks, just move along.