the great american dry spell

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I should really be on a 3rd date right now, making out with someone or at least having a snuggle. I just feel like an asexual sea slug right now. Not in a I feel bad about my body way, but more like I’m incapable of getting a lady boner and, additionally, don’t want to shave my legs.

And I could totally explain it to this person, we’ll call him Third Date Freddy, and just hang out sans orgasms and gross (did I ever mention that I can be really turned off by kissing at random mental times? it’s a thing) mouth-on-mouthing. But rather than explain and have a pleasant social evening, albeit after driving 45 minutes to his place, I decided to spend time with myself.

I did the dishes. I texted my urban friend (is that racist? i mean urban as in he lives in a metropolitan area) but deliberately kept it pretty clean. I unwrapped my new memory foam knee-spacing pillow.

I’m a wet blanket! I’m frigid!

Probably not really, probably just a mood. But it has been over a month for me since I had any real sex (sexual activity, maybe not so long, but at least a month since i could note anything official on my “sexy time” google calendar). It hardly an epic amount of time but it’s my attitude that’s unusual.

Oh, whatever.

Here’s Hamlet:

 

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