So I’m going to say something I usually don’t. I usually don’t say it because I’m not, at the moment, that which I’m about to say. Other times… quite often really… I don’t say it because I’m shy. And so without further ado, and before I chicken out, I’m feeling a little horny at the moment. (Whew!) It’s a totally inappropriate moment for it as far as practicality is concerned. I’m sitting in the living room where almost anyone in the neighborhood could stroll by and see me.

There’s nobody here to be horny with, and yet for reasons I just explained I can’t really unbutton my button-fly jeans and stroke myself. (If nothing else I just heard hammering and, looking out the window it occurs to me that if I can see roofers pounding away at the neighbors they they could probably see me.) It’s also doubly impractical because my partner will return from picking up everyone from school and, on Fridays especially, playdates are … make that triply impractical then. And finally, while I might ordinarily just slip off somewhere more private for a personal “moment” I’m on the couch in the living room with a head cold, surrounded by tissues and cough drops and zinc lozenges (no, I know they don’t do anything) and stacks of teacups with lemon in them. If I felt like moving since I got back from my last band performance (playing bass for a school play) I might have long since done so.

So anyway, here I am, sitting on the couch, nose streaming, tissues everywhere, and just a little bit horny — not horny enough to have an erection or anything, just a bit of a stirring in the deep muscles signaling “ready when you are” — and staring mournfully at my ancient 70’s era mother of pearl belt buckle that for all its heft unhooks easily, and at the buttons in the long fly of my black Levi, the ones where the first button is a bit tricky to undo but thereafter you just take a little twist of the wrist and each succeeding button pops, pops, pops open all the way, way, way down low enough that my cock could be sprung free without sliding off my pants… and yet no matter how much fun that might be it won’t be. Cold. Children. Roofers. Bustle. All conspires to render such possibilities moot.

But! I hope going pretty much against type and admitting that I’m modestly horny, if unable to do anything except talk about it, will make you mildly horny too. Because misery loves company. :-) Because whereas nobody wants to catch someone else’s cold I’m not sure if they mind catching someone else’s horniness.

[Note: Accompanying photo less work-safe than usual. Also, I wrote this yesterday afternoon and… promptly feel asleep without posting it. Not exactly consistent with either horniness or savoir faire, but it is consistent with this wretched cold. :-) —fl]