Sexless And The Suburbs

It's been two weeks since I've had an orgasm. This might be a record.

For the record, this was NOT of my own accord. I regard masturbation the way most people regard a glass of red wine: a simple pleasure, but only to be consumed once a day for health reasons. The only real difference between the two of them is that I don't get paid to drink red wine.

Not yet anyway.

The reason I haven't came in two weeks is because, well, the surgery has been kicking my ass pretty hard. Unfortunately, this means that the more important aspects of my life, like getting off or eating solid food, have kind of taken a backseat.

The rub here is that now that my penis is back to regular functioning, the fact that I'm holed up in my parent's house during my recovery time has put something of a dent in things. I generally make it a rule not to jack off while family is around, and now that my family is around me 24/7...Well, you can see how that might leave me with a pair of blue balls the size of watermelons.

Like all sexually repressed gays, I decided to channel my latent sexual frustration into other fields. Only instead of becoming the governor of Florida, I decided to bake. Stress baking is one of those things that works well to get out all of your negativity, although in this case it was more a matter of keeping in all my positivity.

After scouring the cupboards for baking products, I realized that we had no chocolate chips. And you can't make chocolate chip cookies without chocolate chips! Then they're just cookies, and that just ruins the whole fucking point. Naturally, this was the time when The Doddering Live-In Step-Granny came in to ask me obvious questions.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked, while my head was all the way in the back of the fucking cupboard.

My mother thinks that I don't visit her because I hate my family. This is completely untrue; I love my family dearly, and generally like them. I just think that although they're usually well-meaning...They can be a bit much at times. It's a phenomenon I like to call "I Love My Family, But..." syndrome.

That being said, there is one person in the house that has absolutely no difficulty in driving me up the fucking wall: The Doddering Live-In Step-Granny, Betty. Betty is Graeme's (mom's boyfriend) mother. As far as I can tell, she suffers from neither dementia nor senility. However, she does suffer from that oh-so deadly affliction of being both relentlessly boring and incapable of shutting the hell up. Hand to God, she once spent five straight minutes regaling me with a story about buying ketchup. SPOILER ALERT: She bought ketchup.

"Oh, just some chocolate chips," I said.

"Are you baking?" she asked, because apparently the mountain of baking products in front of her wasn't enough of a clue that I was baking.

"Yup," I said. One thing you should know about me is that when I have no desire to talk to someone, I'll talk using only non-commital, one-word, monosyllabic responses. To date, this has never actually worked, but I'm sure it will eventually.

"Well, I don't think we have any chocolate chips, but we have some dried fruit. It's just as good as chocolate chips!"

I have no idea why old people think this, but no one likes dried fruit. No one. Seriously, it's like taking everything you liked about actual fruit, sucking it out, and then pretending that the sad, withered husk that used to be food is actually a great tasting treat. What's that? You like sweet, juicy grapes? Well too fucking bad. Here are some raisins. Gnaw on these depressing little nuggets that in no way look like rat shit and try not to think about the fact that it feels like your chewing on a goddamn tire. Bon Appetite.

"No thanks," I said, grabbing a bag of crushed up toffee bits instead.

"Do you know where Kahlua is?" she asked, because my trick still had no effect on her. "I haven't seen her all day!"

"She's getting fixed," I said. Despite having had Kahlua for two years, we've never actually gotten around to having her fixed. Eventually, after realizing that you can't giving a dog birth control pills, my mother and Graeme decided to have her fixed, thus doubling the amount of sexless recovering surgery patients in the house. They had been planning this for over a month, but apparently, this escaped Betty entirely.

"Oh, I see. The other day, Kahlua chased her tail," she said.

She goes on for another ten minutes. Really.

When she's gone, I go back to making cookies and doing everything in my power to distract myself from the fact that at any moment my dick might explode like the fat guy from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life. Seriously, I brushed up against the refrigerator by accident and nearly unloaded a fire hose of semen on the kitchen floor.
Cut to me later that night, shoving a cookie into my mouth like it was Matthew Rush's dick (See above). It was only at that point that I realized that, while dark chocolate is delicious, baking isn't a very good substitute for sex. If anything, the only thing that can substitute sex is, well, more sex. Unfortunately, I'm not back home until Monday, which makes any sex something of an impossibility.

This however, does not stop me from having the absolute most depraved dreams ever. Remember Caligula? Well, turn that up to 11 and you're still not even half-way near to what in the hell my subconscious decided to put me through. And of course, the worst part is that I woke before I came, which means that even my unconscious mind is cock-blocking me. On the plus side, I will never allow myself to get sick ever again, as I've learned that I love sex way too much to not masturbate for two weeks.