Originally posted in July 2020. Still valid today.
She dreams of his mouth glued to her pussy.
His tongue dividing her fleshy lips. Probing, searching…
Moisture dripping on his face, down her thighs, onto the sheets.
She yearns, and desires.
Then, something distracts, and she dries up.
She ponders a different strategy.
What if she teases and edges herself? Will this increase her need? Or will this simply cause despair?
She focuses on edging. She dreams up ways to keep her arousal elevated. Constant and enduring.
But, no tipping over the edge. She will have to time herself to stop before she ruins it.
Fingers will have to do. There are no toys, vibrating or otherwise.
But does it work? Will her fingers be enough?
She recalls prior experiments. Her hand exploring, sliding around in the slick moisture emanating from her flesh. Pressing a little to the side, near her clit, but not right on it. Adjusting the pressure, then easing off.
Anticipating the buildup. Feeling it pulse, begin to throb…
She pauses again.
It’s no use. Her arousal doesn’t reach the heights she desired. There is something missing.
The challenges of the time interfere with her headspace.
Her appetite to tease and deny is interrupted by worries and uncertainties which cloud her brain. There is no climax.
She takes a moment to reflect. Is she still desirable? Does she still like herself? Will he still like her after prolonged absence? Will anyone?
She checks the mirror. Snaps a few selfies…it’s worked before. Will it work again?
What if vanity and self-image cease to be important during this pandemic?
She shakes her head as if she’s able to eject such thoughts out of her brain.
Desirability is in the eye of the beholder, she reminds herself. It begins with self-love.
Passion will resume, she hopes.
She longs to submerge herself back into a state of elevated arousal. The one that occupies her brain, first, but travels to her erotic zones.
The one that awakens the dew between her thighs.
The one that permeates the flesh and penetrates her core.
The one that endures even when she’s distracted by daily obligations.
The one that invites her back into her sanctuary that is her bedroom where she can focus, and stimulate, at will.
Where she can let her inhibitions go. Where she can escape from life and responsibility.
Where dreams and fantasies come alive…
But the pandemic realities interfere with her libido.
She is not alone.
She sees it elsewhere, too. All around her.
There is less content to trigger erotic thought.
Less creativity to satiate the needs of the lonely and neglected.
Less thirst for lust. Temptation doesn’t lurk in the usual places anymore.
Playful seduction has taken a backseat to the worries and uncertainties created by this pandemic.
As a result, passion, and lust, feel muted somehow. Understated.
And sexual play, with its provocations and temptations, has ceased to prevail as a means of erotic expression.
Maybe it’s temporary. Like a transient hiatus. Or like hormonal fluctuations.
Only time will tell.