A social distancing order and country in lockdown is the last thing you need when you’re trying to have as much sex as possible.
Flint and I don’t live together, so we quarantine in different flats, and I’m suddenly very alone. I’ve always known my living space is small, but it looms much tinier when there’s no escaping it. The shops run out of food, toilet paper, soap and sanitary products. The government’s messages are mixed, the meaning of ‘essential’ is redefined, and the year stretches grimly ahead with no structure, order or end in sight.
It fucks me up a bit.
Flint and I have a couple of date nights a week via video and phone calls. With all his projects and responsibilities, he is completely slaying lockdown, and I feel pathetic and a bit useless with no work and no motivation. I spend a lot of time thinking about the last time we saw each other in person.
A Saturday evening at his flat. We drank Champagne, got lightly buzzed and fucked luxuriously. He fell into an easy sleep and I wandered the flat for most of the wee hours. At about 7am, we were both awake and in bed. I snuggled into his back, taking on the big spoon role. I rarely do. Weaving my arm around his waist, I found him hard in his Calvins, and gave him a quick and frantic handjob. The morning following was lovely. We don’t often get to spend much time relaxing during the day due to work commitments. But this morning, we dozed on and off, warm and wrapped together. I made myself some tea, and coffee for Flint, and we chatted for a long time, arms and legs linked, laughing, flirting and connecting.
Over the following weeks apart, we text most days and send infrequent nudes, but I am not coping with the lack of touch. It’s as though the universe is dead set against me having a regular sex life: when you go from a dead-bedroom relationship to a government-mandated sex ban, it’s hard not to take it to heart. When I pick up my prescriptions at the beginning of quarantine, the pharmacist hands me six months of birth control, which is fuel for ironic laughs with pals on WhatsApp if nothing else.
It had long been an agreement that I, or Flint, or both of us would buy a magic wand vibrator. One of those big fuckers with a head that means business and about 20 different speed settings. Our in-joke is miming revving a chainsaw to power up the machine that will hopefully help me cum. With one of my last paychecks, I say fuck it and find one on sale at Ann Summers; it comes with a variety of changeable heads, including a clit stimulator and anal beads.
When it arrives, I send Flint a video of it on the lowest setting. Even at its tamest, the vibrations make my entire hand shake.
They say you don’t forget your first time. This is a whole new ballgame, an entirely new sensation that makes me let out involuntary cries of pleasure throughout the less than four minutes it takes for me to cum. I message Flint and before he can message back, I cum again.
In the past, I’ve cried after sex. With Flint, I laugh when I’m about to reach orgasm. With this vibrator, it’s a mixture of both. And legs that won’t stop shaking. If I don’t get to touch Flint for the next few months, I suppose this is an acceptable substitute.