Sick sex.

Rowdy came over, and although I am by no means better, we fucked. It was kind of awkward, definitely not one for the record books; we didn't kiss on the mouth because we didn't want to swap spit, and in my crappy physical condition I didn't get wet, didn't move around much, and didn't last super long.

But I was grinning like a lunatic all the way through this lousy sex, because it was just such a relief to be sexual again. There's few things more desexualizing than being a sick person; not only are you physically incapable, but the medical establishment makes it very clear that you have to focus on Important Things right now, and sex isn't possibly one of those.

I had gone a full week without an orgasm. A week! That may be a personal record, at least since puberty. Last Saturday morning I fucked Rowdy, and that evening I started feeling sick, and by Monday I was in the hospital, and after getting out I was just too exhausted and demoralized to even knock off a quick one. I was actually relatively subdued in my reactions (as I go), but the first time Rowdy got me off today, it was like a fucking dam breaking.

No. It was like coming home. Back to the place where I'm desirable, desiring, fuckable, fucking. Back to where pleasure matters. Back to where bodies are wonderful beautiful things for joy and exploration. Back to being a person.