I'm horny. Not for sex. Or at least not for the physical motion of a penis going in and out. That’s boring. I'm horny for a crush. Not for love, because I still can’t even imagine myself being bothered to date a man anytime soon.
I'm horny for the connection that is so rare. For a man who actually makes me nervous. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s a man with a six-pack, covered in tattoos and with long, curly hair that makes him look like a Greek god, or a skinny, ginger professor from Cambridge. It’s not about looks because this connection is beyond the physical. It’s chemical. Two bodies whose pheromones go crazy for each other, as if they were made for one another. And somehow, they managed to find each other on this planet with over eight billion people.
I'm horny for the one simple kiss that turns into an electric shock and you can’t breathe, but also you can’t stop because you want more. You need more. There’s no way back. You want to feel their hands all over your body. Your body aches to feel them everywhere, and they ache to touch and kiss you all over, feeling frustrated because they only have two hands and one mouth. It’s all animalistic but still sensual. The best sex is the kind that triggers all your senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch.
I'm horny for the first date that gives me butterflies while I'm getting ready for it. When I know it’s going to be good, even though I can’t possibly know yet. I'm nervous, but it’s the good kind of nervous. The kind that makes you count down the days because you just can’t wait. And then it happens - the first kiss that makes you forget about everyone else around you. No one else exists but you and the other person. The evening walk back home together, and actually being nervous about having sex. Like I haven’t done it a thousand times before. This is how you should feel about sex. Nervously excited. That’s when it’s the one you’ll remember forever.
Gosh, how did he make me squirt so soon? I haven’t even touched him yet. Some men just know how to make women crazy. They know how to turn off our brains that otherwise never stop spiralling. They make us hungry. Animalistic. I couldn’t get enough. And if I wasn’t so sore after the sixth round, I would have kept going. Over and over again.
I'm horny for waking up next to each other with a terrible hangover. Not being able to get up and get ready for the day, but having a strong urge for an orgasm that will make me feel better. Make us feel better. Both of you stink, but who cares - it only makes you go wild for each other even more. After that, you take a little break, snooze for a bit, only to be woken up by the other person wanting more. They want to satisfy themselves, but they also want to satisfy you. Pushing the right buttons. Knowing it’s the neck that melts my brain - kissing it, breathing on it, whispering into the ear and biting the neck so hard the sensation, mixed with pain, is almost unbearable, yet still so good you never want it to stop. It’s better than an orgasm because you can just keep going and going, and you feel it all over your body.
The whole day spent under the sheets: having sex, mutually masturbating, making each other cum over and over again. Only getting up once you’re both starving and can’t take it anymore. The whole room smells like sex.
Then you come back home, have sex again, cuddle each other, and go back to sleep.
The perfect day.
I'm horny for the kind of sex that comes to your mind when you’re listening to Artemas.
We’re dancing in the club. It’s dark. We’re sweaty. We’re high. We kiss. We laugh. You’re touching my butt, and my hands are running through your hair. By the time we get home, we’re so desperate for each other, we have sex in the kitchen not even taking our clothes fully off.
I'm horny for the kind of sex that doesn’t actually satisfy you, because it’s so good that you need more. It’s like a drug. You’re thinking about it the next day, and you just can’t focus on anything else, replaying all the details that happened the night before. Their touch. Their breath. All the little sounds and moans they made. You masturbate over it, which frustrates you even more, because it’s not the real thing. It’s not even close to the real thing. You need the person again. You need their touch, you need their lips. You’d do anything to experience the whole thing one more time. Just one more time, you think, even though you know “one more time” would not be enough.
I'm horny for Jack O’Connell.
Anyway, can you tell my personal life is very celibate at the moment?
L. x