Quarantine has brought a lot of problematic things to the surface. I’m not talking about our lack of infrastructure, adequate healthcare and social welfare systems in the US. I’m not even talking about your obsession with baking bread in jars, and realizing starting a family with a man that whistles was a huge mistake. It’s not the inability to sit still or entrain ourselves, oh no, it’s something much more rooted in our lizard brain. It’s that feeling that’s been with us since we emerged from sludge, the deep need to feel joy, pleasure and relief. Sex. I am talking about sex.
More accurately, I want to talk about masturbating because a lot of us are quarantined single and if you thought we were being a little loosey goosey with our sex lives before, think again! We are over a month into isolation and minutes away from humping a hard-back chair, or any chair quite frankly. We loathed and whined about online-dating before, but now, 5 minutes into our virtual date with Jeffery we’re licking our computer screen and wondering if Jeff’s cock would be worth dying for.
Check in on your single friends. We are not okay. It’s not so much that we’re lonely, but that things are getting weird. And hot. It’s a hot weird over here and we no longer know what we’re supposed to feel. We just know we’re horny as hell. Suddenly people we never thought we would imagine in a sexual way are featuring front and center in our late-night self-care sessions. And by “late-night” I mean whenever we feel overwhelmed, aroused, hungry, or conscious.
Who new that a Governor who could speak in complete sentences, express empathy and be blatantly honest about the troubles ahead would have me gushing. I am living for Cuomo’s polo shirts and I am imagining doing bad things to it. I’m straight, but Katie Porter telling off congress made me shake all over. I want to fog up Fauci’s glasses if you know what I mean.
An intelligent man who is at the top of their field and cares about my well-being… I’ve lost my train of thought but I need to change my panties.
The delivery guy dropping off my grocers seemed like such a caring, and dependable provider that I almost dragged him into the apartment so I could jump his bones. There is a painting of a male flamenco dancer on the back of my door. I thought the illustration I would most be attracted to would be Dimitri from Dreamwork’s Anastasia, but I named the dancer Jaun and we are dating now. I used to be annoyed, hearing my upstairs neighbor’s headboard rhythmically banging against the wall as they fucked loudly until 3 in the morning, but now it’s helping me keep up my own pace. Somehow Cuomo has shown up and he’s telling us off for not social distancing but eventually joining in because he cares! Easter brought some strange, S&M, and guilt ridden fantasies about Jesus and the Easter Bunny. I won’t go into it but in my brain both PETA and the Evangelicals are after me. It is only adding to my anxiety and therefore a need to release. It’s a vicious circle that I really didn’t expect to be the 14,098,357 reason I’m going to Hell. Oh wait… the devil is muscular in this “fear of damnation” daydream. How did my vibrator get in my hand so fast?
I’m going to be honest with you, when the all clear is announced mistakes will be made. The second this quarantine is over I am stalking up on condoms and swiping right on the first guy with a pulse and a one-bedroom apartment. And a job, I still have a tiny bit of self respect left, but get back to me in a month.
Image: The Holiday/Pinterest
