Did you know there is a test you can take to see if you are ovulating. Apparently, it checks your hormone levels. People use them when they are trying to get pregnant. I really don’t get it. I don’t need a test to tell me when I’m ovulating. The urge to screw generally lets me know.
Only in the last few years has it become “acceptable” for women to admit to being horny, and to talk about this kind of stuff. I put that in quotation marks because it continues to have negative cultural connotations. Yeah, sure, women get horny, but they’re sluts. That’s the assumption anyway. Not everyone knows better yet. And even I approach with treppidation writing about this, but it helps get it out of my head.
When I’m horny almost anything gets me hot. Television is already raunchy. Suddenly classical music is an ode to the rhythmic thump bed against the wall. Every woman walking by below my window in strappy sandals, every guy jogging without his shirt on, every couple holding hands. Skin against skin. I mentally sort the novels on my shelves by which ones have good sex scenes. Men think women don’t like porn. We just don’t need to go to special shops to buy ours. It’s then that I almost feel sorry for men. If I think about sex this much and men supposedly think about it far more often than women, it’s a wonder they get anything done at all. I know I don’t sometimes.
But much as I would like to pull out my drop-dead red dress and go hunting in the dozens of bars and clubs which fill this college town, somehow I manage to restrain myself. I wander around my house, horny and listless and alone. I’m reminded of what athletic trainers say, just “power through.” I tell you, I would so love something powerfull right about now.
When I feel like this, I know I am not thinking clearly. It is a little like being tipsy or fatigued. I can see where I might make an unwise decision in the need to scratch this itch. If I’m making unwise decisions, you can bet I’ll be making unwise decisions about the how I interact with the person I’m with. I certainly won’t be as aware of that person as I might otherwise be when all I can think about is what they have to offer me.
Within the bonds of a relationship, the parties know one another. We have the opportunity to learn about each other’s desires, preferences, foibles, pet peeves, sore spots, hot buttons. There is a platform for conversation so when something is wrong the ground exists to discuss it. There is proof, one hopes, that each party cares for the other, so any wrongs can be addressed, rather than written off. There is room for laughter and teasing. Not to mention the fact that there is a better chance that he has already figured out just how you like it and you’ve learned how to give him the ride of his life. Or vice versa. Or both alternately.
Anyway, what was I talking about?