withdrawal

I suppose it was inevitable that my body would begin to go through withdrawal symptoms.

I mean, this has been my weekend:  I felt sick, I pulled myself together for a single family outing (presumably for the sole purpose of listening to two hours of bickering), I overdosed on hot Tang and Netflix and, finally, today I’ve awoken with swollen lymph nodes, an even sorer sore throat and a seemingly incurable case of 40-year-old divorcee libido.

In fact, the dream from which I awoke was distinguished in my personal history by the vast number of naked bodies and penises that graced it. Room after white room of naked bodies languidly sprawled on white-dressed beds, like multiple Calvin Klein underwear ads occurring simultaneously, but without the underwear. Yes, there were naked women, too, but the naked men and their generously sized semi-erect members (member — who ever thought of that euphemism, anyway?!) were the dominant feature of my dream. The bodies appeared artfully arranged and were seemingly both post coital and ready to serve. I wandered from room to room, greeted by the occasional unashamed acquaintance…and then I awoke. Horny.

Here we have a situation 80s hair band Cinderella so eloquently sang about in their ballad, “Don’t Know What You Got (Until It’s Gone).” In other words, over the past several months, I’ve had the luxury of forgetting entirely what it’s like to be sexually unfulfilled. It was a luxury (along with so many others, like feeling loved and appreciated, for example) that I appreciated. Yet that doesn’t ease the urgency or pain of what I’m missing now.

Of course this is just one of many things I do and will miss about being in a relationship and the gentleman with whom I was involved, specifically. But that doesn’t make it any easier to manage these unfulfilled desires, at least not in the short term…at least while I’m out of the habit of replenishing my battery supply.