I say, has anybody seen my sex-drive laying around anywhere? I appear to have misplaced the wretched thing. Perhaps it is taking a sabbatical in order to lounge on the sofa sliding its tongue into liqueur-filled chocolates with liquid centres that trickle slowly across its tingling taste-buds. Licking and sucking on the chocolate shell, drawing the sugary-sweetness past its pouty lips and into its mouth over and over . . .

Usually, The Drive hovers around trying to distract me from getting anything productive done. It whispers seductively in my ear of sensual things and masculine smells and erotic touches. It especially likes to draw my attention to anything and anybody that may be inappropriate to my surroundings and/or company at that moment in time. While I attempt to stammer out my order to the handsome server at the five-star restaurant, The Drive will send me mental images of melted butter dripping from his fingers as I helpfully lick them clean. My coworkers stare as I purr out a request for extra butter while gazing up from under my eyelashes. The Drive has caused me to bolster the battery business and once or twice to lower my relationship standards to an embarrassing degree. Some days I trip over it on my way to the bathroom. Other times it insists on telling me how to dress and what colour of lipstick to apply. It’s quite bossy really. It arrogantly refuses to allow itself to be controlled by the low- or high-drives of others; although, admittedly, it can sometimes pout flamboyantly when it feels unappreciated. I suppose it is possible that The Drive is presently sulking because I have been accidentally ignoring it for the past couple of months; proving the truth to the idiom that if you ignore it then it will go away. It’s a shame that doesn’t work at-will for other situations. That power over the Universe thing that I have previously mentioned tends to be rather fickle and unpredictable.

As if having half your hair fall out, your eyesight weaken, and battling middle-age spread isn’t enough; I am told that when I eventually get dragged kicking and screaming into menopause that The Hormones will not die but will instead attempt to kill me by conspiring greatly with The Drive in order to snap the last few strands of my sanity. I can hardly wait.

We do not always get along, The Drive and I; our mood cycles sometimes clash, but now that it has taken an unofficial leave of absence I find myself missing it. Although, in reality, the only thing in my residence that has been getting pounded of late would be my keyboard. It is not that I really need The Drive to be around right now since I’m actually being productive . . . if you count writing a meandering article about your missing sex drive as “productive”.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 27th, 2006 at 2:55 pm and is filed under Humour, Naughty. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.