You know how chocolate is meant to pump up your sex drive? Like, it releases endorphins and that fires off pheromones to other people and makes you feel more ready to transfer affection and thus increases your lust for sexual activity and all? Yeah? Well, it isn't working for me. I think it's having the opposite effect.
Don't get me wrong. I haven't lost my sex drive. But I have been having an awful lot of chocolate recently - mostly due to the fact that originally I was expecting to get one Easter egg from my parents and ended up with about six - and, what with the man flu and the working from home and all, I've eaten quite a bit. Hey, it's chocolate and it's free, I'm not going to complain... even if I do prefer sherbet lemons.
So I got back from The North yesterday and after an evening of Sorting Shit Out and so forth, I went to sle... well, bed. Ostensibly to sleep. I didn't sleep. I didn't masturbate - that's what I'm trying to say. To be fair, I had had a large orgasm the day before, wherein the cum hit my neck and Cath licked it off like some form of reverse vampire. By this time, there was such a build-up of chocolate (white, in the shape of a love heart and decorated with some swirly red stuff that thankfully wasn't cochineal) that one would think any form of sexual indulgence to take place today would resemble some form of volcanic kinetic energy in the shape of male ejaculate substance production.
It wasn't. I did masturbate, I did orgasm. I even did so to soft porn, which as we all know I love, especially on a Sunday. I just realised half a second too late that I wasn't really feeling it. I had, essentially, cheated myself of a really satisfying orgasm by... well, having an orgasm. I'm aware that not every orgasm involves scented candles, rose petals, pink sheets, lace and soft focus, but at least I usually make sure I'm in the mood before doing so. Chocolate hadn't been the trigger. It may well usually be, but it wasn't here. Or there. Or, let's face it, anywhere. Unlike a heffalump or woozle.
Despondent and lethargic (also odd, because chocolate contains a lot of sugar), I realised it was well past six by this point, and that what I actually should be indulging in was food of a more savoury nature. So into the kitchen I went, emerging with a tray laden with a floured bap cuddling a modest amount of Camembert, a pile of ready salted low-fat crisps, some toast and hummus for dipping, and a cup of steaming hot tea. My normal lunch, sure, but after I supped at this cup of bland depravity, I almost immediately felt my energy rising to a peak once again.
I didn't try to masturbate a second time. But I think I've just found my aphrodisiac.