cw: pandemic isolation, D/s and kink, daddy as a D/s honorific, depression & anxiety
I can’t remember my last orgasm.
I remember when it probably was—a few weeks ago, testing one of the toys I’m supposed to review. I think I liked it. I suppose that’s good.
Right now, the idea of touching myself for pleasure sounds exhausting. The idea of touching myself for work is worse. But then, if I think about masturbating at all, I remember the stack of toys I’m due to review, and I feel guilty doing anything else.
So I just…don’t. Instead I play The Sims 4, watch movies, work in the garden (with a sense of trepidation—there’s a walking path just behind my tiny backyard, and people like to cut through the yard itself, so six feet is hard to maintain), bake bread, play the Sims some more. I stay off social media. I post in this blog every week, and watch my buffer deplete because I’ve never felt less sexual in my life. How can I possibly write sexual content?
Like so many others, my house is fuller than usual. It took me a few weeks to realize that the recommended isolation is actually not isolating enough, that I’m always with people—the people I live with, the people I care about—and after a confusing fight with my spouse, I realized I needed to be truly alone sometimes. So I take an hour in the bedroom, two hours, three, and I read, or play phone games, or fall asleep, and when I come out again I’m fairly cheerful, or as much as I can be. I suppose at these times I could masturbate—I know no one will disturb me, because I’ve asked to be left alone. But why? I can’t imagine wanting to.
It reminds me of when I lived at my parents’ home. I’d only ever masturbate if I knew they were dead asleep, or when they were out of the house. My mom didn’t generally burst into my room, but she was there, and I could sense my parents roaming the hall, hear them talking in their room. Then it was fear, of some sort, of being caught; now it’s merely disinterest.
Usually, my sex life, my kink life (my kink is nonsexual, but I still can’t quite differentiate between the two) happen when my metamour is at work. It’s not just the acts that I like to keep private. It’s the time after, when my brain is pleasantly mush and I’m a little dumb and very happy and extremely vulnerable. My vulnerability is Damien’s alone, and I don’t like to share it with anyone else.
But he’s here, and that’s okay, because my kink drive is about where my sex drive is: gone, gone, gone.
Sometimes my Sim has sex. I fast-forward through it.
When I fantasize, it’s about aftercare, not spanking. I still want to be submissive, but the dominance I think about is gentle and protective. It reassures me that everything will be all right, and in my fantasies it’s easier to believe it. Fantasies don’t have anxiety. Fantasies aren’t aware of the news.
My real dominant reassures me, too, but they’re anxious, too. They don’t always tell me, but I know.
Sometimes, when I’m very tired, anxiety and stress fall away a little. Only when I’m half-asleep do I think about more interesting things: I think about scratching, and candle wax, and bondage. Sometimes I dream about kinky sex, and it’s hot as hell, and if things were right I’d focus on those dreams. Instead, I tell my spouse, “I dreamed a celebrity chef spanked me and I gave him a blow job,” we both laugh, and then I go play the Sims.
We tried to put up a fence so we can go in the backyard more, but it collapsed. So instead we’re inside, except a few minutes to water the garden. There’s no wallpaper to trap me in, just smooth white walls, prints and décor I chose.
I’m isolated, but not isolated enough, but too isolated. And my vagina might as well be someone else’s.
I try to shower regularly, though I forget, now that we can’t go run errands. I thought I was home all the time before, but I never realized how much I depended on weekly tasks and random outings. Now those aren’t there, so I forget to shower for days on end. It’s funny how I seem to care more, when life is normal, how I’m presented to the outside world, and forget to care how I look to my spouse. But at all times they’re my dominant, and my Daddy, and every now and again they say, “Pommy, you need to shower.” So I do. My submission may be non-sexual, and at the moment it might be free of any real kinky activities, but it’s still there.
Sometimes, when I’m alone to recharge, I miss Damien. When I come out of the bedroom I cling to them for a long moment before they take their turn being alone.
And then I play the Sims.
One random night as we’re getting ready for bed, I turn to Damien. “Tomorrow,” I say, resolutely, and for no reason, “I’m going to shower, and I’m going to use the yellow vibrator.”
It’s not one I’m testing, and maybe I should feel guilty. But it’s still my favorite, and it’s charged. And most importantly, I’ve said it out loud. I know Daddy will hold me to it. I made a promise, and now I have to. I almost wish I hadn’t. It still sounds exhausting, and I’ll need aftercare when I’m done, and do I really want to spend time being dumb and sleepy and useless and fragile in a tiny apartment full of people?
But I promised.
That night I thought, for the first time in a long time, about things I could write for my blog. Not reviews, though I’m already falling behind on my deadlines. Other things, silly things, honest things. I commit to none of it, but I do think of it without trepidation.
I dream of a dominant person—it doesn’t matter who—doling out comfort and orgasms in equal measure. When I wake up, I’m almost—almost—turned on.
When I wake up, I think, “Maybe Damien and I could do a scene. A little scene.” They’re still asleep, and I’m not ready to get up, and so I fantasize. I think about candle wax, and scratching, and bondage. I think about the shivery feeling of our Wartenburg wheel over my spine. I think about the sounds I make sometimes, which could embarrass me with someone else home, and then I think about Daddy telling me to be quiet, hush now, I’m being such a good girl to take what they’re giving out.
I think about masturbating in the shower. Usually in the shower I lean against the wall, imagining a voice in my ear telling me filthy things, a body pinning me down. I think, What if those words were of comfort? What if they just told me everything was okay, and it was all right, and I can come now?
When we get up, I check to make sure the yellow vibrator is charged. I make coffee, and pour cereal. I think about writing. I forget the toys I’m supposed to test. I don’t load the Sims. Sunlight spills down into the living room, and I look out and admire our little garden. Marigolds are blooming. Later maybe I’ll water them. It’ll just be a moment, but it’ll be some sun.
Today, I’ll shower, and I’ll bring my vibrator, and remind my body that it exists. The vibrator is my favorite, dependable, and that’s its own kind of comfort.
Maybe this will flip a switch; maybe I’ll remember to do it more regularly. Maybe it won’t. But it’s something different, something breaking up whatever isolated strangeness has settled through me in all of this.
When I’m done, I’ll lay in bed for a while, and feel dumb and distant and happy and peaceful. Maybe I can call on Damien to stroke my hair. Maybe I’ll be vulnerable enough to ask for the comfort I dream of. Maybe I’ll have comfort enough to be vulnerable.
If nothing else, for a moment, everything will be okay.
Moments from Earth is my series of personal non-fiction concerning my life on this strange little planet. Read more Moments | Support Queer Earthling
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