Lockdown plays havoc with my horn, and I know I’m not alone. A brief survey of ‘most people I know’ tells me most of us are struggling with very weird lockdown libido. Sometimes we’re numb to the very idea of sex, and wanking feels so alien that we wonder how we could ever have stomached touching our own genitals before. At other times we’re climbing the walls, wanking twelve times a day then yelling BRING ME MORE FUCK like some sex-starved Henry VIII.
At the moment, I am in the ‘sex hating’ stage of lockdown. I was offered one (1) bout of sex the other day, an offer which would usually have me happily whipping my clothes off before you could say ‘steady on, GOTN, have you never heard of foreplay?’ but I turned it down in favour of doing what I do most often right now: staring at my computer and failing to conjure enough words to scrape together a blog post.
But it won’t last, this numbness. Give it a couple of days and I’ll be humping furniture again, cursing my past self for ever having said ‘no’ to even the briefest and most incompetent of fucks. Washing my dildos ten times each day and flicking swiftly between pride that I can manage so much wanking while the world collapses and self-disgust that I have been far too busy getting off to get on with the work I so desperately need to do.
Lockdown libido: the third coming
Lockdown one was characterised by an echoing, eerie emptiness.
Lockdown two seemed almost like a joke: it was so close to Boris Johnson’s Christmas Superspreader Bonanza that it seemed almost pointless staying inside.
Lockdown three? A rollercoaster of horn. Lockdown libido that soars epically high, allowing me to coast through some of the days on wave after wave of orgasm, blissfully blank to the news and worry and panic, before plummeting down well below my knickers and deep into the centre of the Earth.
One minute genuinely disgusted with my own body, wishing I could just hibernate in a pile until this shit is all over, the next literally unable to keep my hands off myself as flash-frame images from shags in the recent-and-distant past pile up in my brain demanding attention.
It’s echoed in emotions too – not just horn. I find myself switching rapidly back-and-forth between days of echoing misery and days of pure, unadulterated joy. One day dragging my arse out of the house to go for a walk seems like the largest mountain I will ever climb, and as the rain splatters on my glasses and I haul my feet through the mud I think ‘yeah, fuck this. Never again.’
The next day, that same rain will feel refreshing and beautiful. The mud a glorious reminder that I’m alive and lucky enough to live near somewhere that isn’t pure concrete.
One day listlessly wandering around the house, picking up and putting down projects and ideas and hobbies as I realise each and every one of them bores and disgusts me. The next day embracing everything and then weeping with joy that my life is so full of hula hoops and woodwork and books and cards with which to build new MtG commander decks.
Today: terrified of the future. Tomorrow: excited by possibilities.
If you plotted my third lockdown on a mood board, it would look like a spiky, haphazard squiggle. Like a ride on a Theme Park coaster built by a child, which throws all the virtual people off partway through the journey. Like Donald Trump’s signature. Like a total fucking mess.
I hate the unpredictability of it, but I do take comfort from the fact that even on the downslopes I can be utterly confident that this too shall pass. I hate that I’m so often numb and dull and discontent, but love knowing with certainty that if I sit through enough penance in the dark place, a light will appear on the horizon to guide me to a better one.
That at some point, when I’m shivering under a blanket on the sofa, contemplating whether tonight I’ll be able to get any sleep, my body might twitch with the memory of a thing and whisper in my inner ear:
“Pssst. Remember you’ve got a vagina?”
“You should use it to do that thing we like.”