Sunday night. And no reprieve from this bubbling undercurrent of sexual desire that has been threatening to pull me under since “Running high“. I’ve tried reading erotica, writing erotica, looking at sensual paintings, running, masturbating (many, many times). Nothing works. I am conscious of my heart beat with every breath. I feel the tension in my shoulders and neck. There is that place just between my shoulder blades that tingles at the merest thought of touch. I catch myself looking longingly at men passing by. I have to stop myself from accidentally touching the man at the next table as I reach for the sugar (I don’t even use it in my coffee!).
I drink a glass of wine at night, in the hope it will help me fall asleep. Anything to take the edge off this rawness, this heat. And in the midst of this fever, hidden desires seem to bubble to the surface. What would it be like to be out of control, to let someone else take control? Be controlled, titillated, teased, pleasured by someone, a stranger? I crave so much. But there is no reprieve.
Strangely, the last few months have been a libidinal void. I’m not sure what happened. I suppose I was busy working, the husband was around all the time, geographically distanced from all my lovers and no time to meet new ones. Perhaps my London lover odyssey exhausted me. Perhaps I just needed to recharge. But I’ve been searching for that elusive tingle, that excitement, that feeling of standing on the edge. And so, returning to the scene of many crimes, I find myself in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A city I left over a year ago, still tingling and raw from my first threesome with the American and Frenchman. A city full of memories – the gardener, the Italian, Eton boy and other late night fumblings.
Last night I saw the gardener again and I felt something begin to thaw behind my eyes. It was a dinner, another friend was there, so no chance to be alone. Looking at his tanned skin and lean muscles I could sense a distant, yet familiar sensation, a sort of light-heartedness. We chatted and laughed over wonderful food, hands brushing occasionally as we both reached for our glasses, knees touching under the table. Then, walking home again, we lagged a few paces behind my friend and I felt his hand reach for mine. It sent a little jolt through me. Perhaps it is the shock I need to wake me from my numbness, to pull me out of this void. I want to feel alive again.