cavatica

Wow, it's been almost a week since I've written here. Sorry about that. And to those of you who have written comments and not gotten replies? Until recently, I did what is apparently a Typical Dumbass Newbie move and posted all my replies in MY journal instead of the respective commenters' journals. So, you know. Check the entry you posted to and see if there's a response. Then you can point and laugh at me.

A lot of shit going on right now, but I'm pretty much too lazy to write about it. At this particular moment, I'm feeling affection-starved-- though this comes and goes, it's been close to a year since I've had ANY meaningful contact with another human being, and my synapses and nerve endings are, I think, plotting some kind of coup. Tonight I was watching a bunch of my (male) friends do this LARP-type swordplay thing they do, and because this is North Carolina in August, it was 80-something degrees and humid as hell. So they (and all of them are fine-looking individuals, with hotness levels ranging from "good-looking" to "double-take" to "omg yes please") had their shirts off. And they were sweating a lot. And there was a lot of testosterone in one place.

And that hurt me, dear readers.

I hate Look But Don't Touch, where "touch" also means "salivate" or "sing Ave Maria."

See, I'm generally very nonchalant about visual stimulation. Really. Quite a lot of women are this way. I'm vastly more responsive to aural stimulation, or even implied aural stimulation (if someone's just TALKING about breathing thus-and-such a fashion during sex and demonstrates? I have to leave the room). But lately? It doesn't take much. I might have to lock myself in my room and stay here.

More practically, I think maybe I'll abstain from attending these things for a while, or maybe just wait until it's colder and not so sweat-inducing. 'Cause, man. It's killing me.
Sexual frustration blows, man. And not in the good way, either.