Come Over Sometime. We’ll Have Salad.

What started with a dream about Sherlock Holmes has grown so byzantine, so immoderate, so profligate that my body cannot contain it; it snakes out of my bed and down the stairs. It finds me regardless of where I hide.

Not that I hide too hard. I’m enjoying this salacious resurgence very much but no matter how many times I haul up the Wahl by its cord from beneath the bed or jerk off on the couch while watching Top Chef or how passionately a friend kisses my clit and fucks me at the same time I cannot get enough.

I could not get enough last weekend, and even after he left the image of him arched away while I blew him and the sound of his voice (“You got yours. Now it’s my turn”) in my ear made it impossible to work; twice before bed I went back to bed with the wish that he’d never left it, and even days later I can’t shake the unbearable lust that surged when I opened his palm to accept a drizzle of lube.

Today it could not be an more intense. I count the hours until the last child succumbs to sleep, hours that drag on through an age of afternoon and an eon of evening, hours during which, despite a closet full of dildos, I can’t stop casting lascivious glances at the produce.

Whether desire has returned because of one drug’s exit, the next’s entrance or some other heretofore unknown force I do not care.

It may never end. I hope it doesn’t.