I suppose I’ve come off the rails a bit recently, neglecting this blog, my adventures in adultery, losing my lust for life and libido in the process. Don’t get me wrong, there have been flirtations, fleeting embraces and some incredible head (courtesy of a surprise visit by my older lover). But somewhere in my brain that switch hasn’t flipped for some time. I long to lose myself in sheer physical, sensual arousal.
I had a good half hour of thinking time, driving across London this morning. I drove past the pub where I met Moriarty before going to the swinging club all those months ago. It crossed my mind to go there one evening, to be touched, sucked, fucked out of this numbness. I spent an evening with Moriarty this week. He cooked, we talked, drank wine, touched. It felt like a thaw, a long inhalation of breath. Something began to shift, lift.
The next night I saw the economist, ironically he has broken up with his girlfriend. We had dinner, though he remained on a work conference call throughout. We went to a gig, hands touching briefly, the alcohol loosening our inhibitions. We spent time at a bar afterwards. I told him how much he meant to me. We kissed. But it is clear to me that he is not someone who can cheat. And I cannot bear to witness him find another girlfriend again, standing on the sidelines as a substitute.
And so, I am reaching the conclusion that the road to recovery lies ahead. A new lover. A new lust for life, for living, for fucking, for feeling. I am hopeful.