Hot Tub Thoughts
I have always had a very vivid imagination. As a child that needed to frequently escape my surroundings I learned to live in my head, developing a rich fantasy life that became very adult the moment I read my first sex scene in a novel.
Since then, my imagination has always played a huge part in my sex life. It’s been the fuel, and the spark, the slow burn and the flash fire (did you know, by the way, that on the second day of the Great Fire of London, 500 houses were burning every hour?! Thanks to primary school homework, I know this, and now you have to know it too). I tend to run scenarios through my mind a million which ways to figure out what I like, how I feel, and what I want. This is probably because I need to know a situation before I feel confident in it, but I’ve had to come to terms with my imagination in a different way this year.
There is a lot of grief, obviously, at all the things I’ve lost. I learned this week that the muscles in Long Covid (and ME) are very similar to damaged heart muscles after a heart attack. They aren’t getting enough oxygen, and so exercise causes pain and damage to the muscle fibres and nerves. What this means is that all the things I long for, all the scenarios I want to try, all the sex I want to have – it is in my head. The kind of sex I want to have just isn’t possible with my muscles the way they are. I don’t have any strength or stamina to even hold up my own body, let alone attempt anything vigorous. And do you know how FUCKING HARD it is not to tense your leg muscles when you masturbate/orgasm? Try it sometime. It is impossible.
I hate this, more than anything else. I’d rather have my sex life back than be able to walk in the woods or go for a run. I miss it so bad it hurts, so deeply and profoundly I can’t put it into words. I miss it so much that I still have the occasional wank, when I just can’t put it off any longer, even though I know it will cause further pain and a step backwards in my recovery. You might think that I’d turn off my brain and try to focus on something else. I can’t.
Instead, my thoughts have become filthier than ever. I can’t fuck, physically, but you better believe that I am fucking you all in my head, as much as possible. (Yes, you. Sorry about that. I hope you don’t mind. You are all just so fucking sexy). I am thinking of all the filthy ways I could be rescued from this ridiculous situation, and all the filthy things I would do if I could trust my body again, and lay claim to it, and honour its needs and desires and longings. In other words, my imagination IS my sex life.
What better place to engage in all that filthy fantasy than in the hot tub. I have very much enjoyed floating about, feeling lightweight and mobile, and imagining all sorts of conversations, all sorts of scenarios and all sorts of wonderfully sexy fucks that I could have. I can enjoy the feeling of arousal, and the anticipation, and then sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I find myself making the same sorts of sounds as I would make if I was really fucking you, like I am doing in my head, right now. I can’t help it, and they escape my mouth in groans and cries as I whimper into my pillow and I imagine what it would be like, and I can almost, almost feel it.
I’m grateful then, for my vivid imagination.