The horny report

I should have know I’d be horny today. That kind of intense, hard-edge gnawing that sits heavily in my balls and radiates out and up like the molten core of a reactor gone critical.

I should have known because last night, as I was in bed and about to go to sleep, I could feel it starting up. That very particular kind of feeling that one without access to a penis or an avenue to satisfy himself sexually feels. The kind of feeling that, in years past, would have kept me up all night. Tossing and turning and clawing at the steel. But last night, it was more like having a neighbor that throws too many late-night parties. Eventually, the noise becomes part of life’s background. Noticeable and present, but not as much an impediment.

But this morning. The party is a full-on three kegger frat house orgy. And my mind won’t stop dwelling on scenarios and imaginings that only make the thumping party music increase in volume and tempo.

This isn’t simple frustration. When a normal boy feels sexual frustration he’s never more than a quick trip into a bathroom stall away from relief, worst case. When a locked person like me feels it — locked in the way I am — there is no release. No hope for release. The frustration just builds on itself. Sometimes slowly and steadily and sometimes with incredible force. And then the mind keeps showing me objects and scenarios and making suggestions that are tantalizingly displayed on the other side of a perfectly clear, perfectly thick and impenetrable wall of glass. And rushing towards those temptations results in slamming against the glass again and again with the only end to the flagellation coming with exhaustion.

On my trip into work this morning, nearly from the moment I was out of the driveway, the tube was thickly full. The pants I’m wearing are among the tightest I have and they were pushing back at the tube and keeping it from rising while it, in turn, pushed back at its throbbing contents. Swelling to the point of feeling my heartbeat in the steel then feeling it back off slightly only to push forward again. That sensation of having a hard-on and feeling the pressure and gripping tightness of a slightly too-small base ring and then grabbing at it in frustration with the hand not on the wheel to try and tease out any kind of pleasurable sensation only to feel the numb, unrelenting hardness of metal. And that adding even more fuel to the fire.

I don’t know why this happened today. It’s apparently random how the hormones mix and cause the neurons to fire. Belle didn’t let me out for sex this past weekend so I was pretty horny after getting her off, but that’s normal. We’ll be apart this coming weekend so no chance for sex then. Maybe not the weekend after that, either. But I’ll be locked up the whole time. She made a point of reminding me last night lest I had any doubt by asking which device I was taking with me (probably the HT Nub, if you’re keeping score).

It’s also interesting to me in the way only a self-obsessed and inwardly analytical kinky geek could appreciate that my fantasies today are very much focused on the heterosexual side of my personal Kinsey Scale. Like most people, I don’t really think about what I’m going to fantasize about but I do pay attention to the porno film my imagination plays for me and this morning it’s exclusively cuckolding/facesitting stuff.

So, anyway, there you have it. This morning’s horny report. And now to Chet with Sports.

Not horny

This morning I was feeling it big time. From the second I woke up (really, from the second the lights went out the night before). I would say “horny” but, as I was thinking about how I’d describe what I was feeling, I came to the realization that “horny,” as a word, sucks.

The thing is, it’s too tactical. Too in the moment. It’s transitory. What I feel isn’t transitory. It comes and goes (really, waxes and wanes, swells and subsides), but it’s not insistent. It’s not the kind of thing a regular guy would feel which would make him jump his bed partner or, if that was unsuccessful, go rub one out. I don’t do that. The end of horny is orgasm and I rarely (and even more rarely soon) do that. 

But I don’t know what word to use instead. I’m not sure we have a word for what guys who are not allowed to orgasm feel. Yes, horny, but so much more. So much deeper. This morning, I was dressed to go run in my shorts and had not yet put my track pants over them (since it’s freaking cold here and while I run on the treadmill in my shorts, I don’t get from my door to my truck to the gym in them). I hopped up on the kitchen counter and watched Belle make another cup of coffee and she came and stood between my legs and ran her hand up my thigh and under the flimsy running short material. I dropped my face into her neck and smelled her and whimpered. Then, as I was about to leave, I went into the bathroom where Belle was applying her makeup to give her a kiss. Her lips were full and plump and tasted of sweet coffee and I kept kissing her and pressed my body against the length of hers and wrapped one knee behind her where I also slipped my hand so I could finger the cleft above her ass and I just kissed and kissed her and felt a swelling both physically in the device but also emotionally in my chest. I left weak-kneed and light-headed. I fucking wanted  her. I wanted to feel her hot, wet snatch and suck her tits and hear her ragged breathing and tense up as she did and feel my own pale reflection of her release as she arched her back and came under my fingertips. How does “horny” capture that?

Being horny is about craving the thing that makes you not horny. I crave that on some level, but more than that I crave the craving. I crave the feeling that sinks its structural elements and builds a foundation on “horny.” The thing I don’t have a word for. The thing that makes me love being essentially orgasmless.

Yeah, I need a new word.