This has been the hardest week of my life. In the same way all my friends have given up carbs, I have given up sex. Not just sex itself. I have quit reading about it, thinking about it and dreaming about it.
I’ve met a man who belongs to the Lee Moo Lung Thai Abstinence Sect. Once a year for twenty-one days they swear themselves to celibacy. For the sake of our maybe relationship, I have sworn to do the same thing.
To resist temptation, I have stayed at home.
But nothing is easy.
The simplest of tasks become sexy. Picking strawberries from my garden. Washing them, feeling them and mostly, biting into them. The bright red colour, juice splashing down my chin, the texture – it’s too good, they’re sensual, they make me want to do things.
I’m brave. I stash the strawberries. I give them to my neighbour.
Beautiful warm weather. Cloudless skies. Sun-filled days. It feels so delicious to throw off my jeans and sweater and sit outside, laze on a daybed, have the sun caress me, stroke me. I’m happy. Content. Relaxed.
This is easy. I don’t need sex.
Except – Sun. Skin. T-shirt. Panties. This is possibly the worst thing I could’ve done. It’s impossible not to slip my hand in and touch…
I go into my bedroom. Cover my skin. Put on sweatpants and socks. Wish I had a onesie.
Boldly, I take all my French underwear and hide it. No silk or satin in sight. Lace bras, tucked away. Blindfolds banished. Handcuffs hidden. All my stockings swept to the back of the drawer.
Tucked between my stockings – what is this I find – oh, yay – I thought I’d lost it, oh thank goodness, yes, yay, finally – I find my vibrator.
I should. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I really want to.
I take out the batteries and give them to my neighbour. I throw in the vibrator for good measure.
Nothing is going to tempt me. Nothing.
I should probably leave the house. Walking my dogs feels safe. A park, families, children, animals.
But there’s a winter heat wave and everybody is cooling down by eating popsicles. I decide to cool down too.
This is getting ridiculous. A popsicle. The shape. The ice. My tongue. That feeling. The craving. The yearning. The aching.
Every single part of me, hurting.
I go to Checkers. The asparagus are leering at me. The paw paw is provocative. The check-out guy is as young as sexy as the ice-cream seller was, and I can’t do this any more, everything, everywhere, it’s all too much.
I’m going mad. I go home. I call my neighbour. I tell him I need help.
He comes. Immediately.
So do I.