I was alone for Hurricane Sandy and survived. I should’ve been thinking about the threat factor, but sex was the only thing on my mind. With wind gusts at 50mph, water pounding at the panes and fires burning it was perfect to be in between the sheets with a man. The thrill. I was convinced that sex could only be better if it was “hurricane sex.”
There were some minor distractions to my day. The barn flooded so I rode the John Deere to higher ground and covered it with tarp. That was a kick. Attended to water pouring in windows. That was not a kick. Both killed time but I still had 24 hours to go. I read. I Googled. I checked in on The Weather Channel. I watched some rerun of the forgotten show, Wings. I taught my cats to use a litter box. I tried to stay busy but sexual desire triumphed. The raging storm inside me did not subside. It was stronger than ever. Horny is an understatement.
A clarification: even without the threat of a natural disaster, I still think about sex all day. Not every minute, but a lot of minutes. Thing is, I just think about it. I don’t actually have sex. My sex life has pretty much tanked. I’m a writer, but I love sex more than I love writing.
I’m married and have an estranged husband. I believe in my marriage. And so, despite the fact I that I could give a man the best orgasm of his life right now (guaranteed), I’m faithful. I think when my husband returns, our sex life will be amazingly exciting and adventurous. Like a hurricane.
So, during last night’s frenzy, I just fantasized. I’m supposed to be going through that strange but overly researched period called menopause. Women I know are not walking around with 17-year-old adolescent boy hormonal brains like I am. These ladies are frequenting drugstores to buy lubricants, while I’m toting an extra pair of dry panties around.
My husband has no idea what he's in for! I really hope we reconcile. And that he retires soon. That way I can have sex during the day while I'm at home writing.
