I’m horny and everything looks like fucking

Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor

I’m horny and so everything I see looks like fucking. The boots that are lying jumbled in the corner of my bedroom look like a quick, bent-over fuck over an office desk. The couple snogging on the corner look like fucking. The hot guy behind the bar at the local pub with his raised eyebrow and tight t-shirt: he always looks like fucking, but even more so today. I’d normally seethe about the guys on the train playing music loudly from their tinny phone speakers, but they look like fucking right now too.

The closed door to my bedroom looks like fucking, because the door reminds me of the door-cuff-fucking I can’t do.

The sofa taunts me with memories of past-and-future fucks, none of which I can have right now.

My kitchen countertops look like fucking, because I know I could hoist myself up onto one, brace my feet against the opposite, and spread my legs wide for him to get right in the middle of them. So I can’t make coffee in the kitchen without picturing him fucking away until he pulls out and squirts spunk over the entrance to my cunt then lets me bring myself off by briskly rubbing it in.

The stairs remind me of that time when he followed me up, growling about how hot it was to watch my arse as I went ahead of him. When he grabbed me by my ankles and made me stay in that position so he could look up my towel and catch a glimpse of my cunt lips squashed at the top of my thighs. Then ordered me to bend over at the crook of the stairwell so he could grip my hips and slide his dick in.

I ended that night with carpet burns on my knees and jizz dripping from the crack of my arse down the inside of my thighs and so oh God the carpets look like fucking right now too.

I’m horny and so sex is everywhere and nowhere. It’s thumping through my brain and my crotch in time to my heartbeat, and it’s making everything look hot and red and angry. The kind of fucking I imagine bulls and lions and wolves are into.

I can’t have sex right now, and so it is all that is on my mind. Like a smoker who’s just given up, and starts seeing cigarettes everywhere. Like a kid who’s been grounded and realises that it’s beautiful outside today.

Like a girl who’s agreed not to try and fuck anyone, who suddenly realises just how fuckable everyone is. And every thing. Everything is fuckable, or kinkable, or wearable while you’re getting railed by a stranger in the bathroom at a dirty dive bar.

Every song could be played while I’m fucking. Each meal I eat could be done in the post-fuck haze of satisfaction or – better, perhaps – force-fed to me in fistfuls by someone who’s pounding my cunt. Gagging me with cake to keep me quiet while he enjoys the sensation of my panicky, eager cunt squeezing tightly around his dick.

Every drink could be glugged and spilled to make me messy and worth cleaning up. Or trashing messily some more.

Each toilet reminds me that here in this hallowed place, the man I love grips his dick with expertise and precision.

Each chair, sofa, bench or tube seat becomes somewhere I could lift my skirt, sit on his lap, and crush my naked arse against his straining erection.

And while everything looks like fucking, there’s only one person I can take this lust out on. His every single movement only serves to remind me just how desperately I want to feel his dick inside me. And yet I have agreed not to ask him, for reasons that are entirely lost to me now. I said ‘I’ll not try to fuck you, for at least a few days. That way it’s in your hands.’ And I forgot just how beautiful his hands look when he’s rolling a cigarette or playing Xbox or just idly rubbing at the back of his neck when he sits at his computer desk – thick fingers, short nails, soft palms perfect for delivering thudding smacks to my backside if I walk past him at the right moment.

I’m horny, and everything looks like fucking. Everyone is fucking, or about to fuck, or basking in the afterglow of having just fucked. And I want to end this on a note of sadness, summoning all the misery and longing that comes from frustrated libido… but I can’t. Because it’s not sad: right now I’m enjoying it.

Sometimes it’s well worth not-fucking to appreciate just how wonderful the world is when you’re horny. When every single part of it throbs in time to your heartbeat, and every inch of it looks like it’d feel good against your clit.

I’m horny, and everything looks like fucking. Everything is beautiful today.

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