...could practically dry hump the edge of a counter in the kitchen...

From the time I was 12 and had gotten the full tilt boogie sex education class in 6th grade, I could not wait to fuck.

Some would tell you this was due to the fact that a neighbor kid had introduced me to the pleasure of rubbing my clit way too early in life. He was a horribly abused kid (I later discovered) who was simply showing me what his drunk mother and two of his older sisters were regularly showing him.

But I'm not so sure about that theory. Surely by that time I had already gone through the very normal childhood stage of considering my little clit just as important to investigate as, say, figuring out if a bean would fit into my nostril. It was an innocent and simple period of discovery that revealed things such as:
a) Rubbing your clit feels good
b) Shoving a bean in your your nostril does not

Others might theorize that my young and insatiable desire to fuck was based in some sort of unconscious psychological need to prove to my father that I would not "belong" to him for the rest of my life. Indeed, he had taken me on as what some would call his "surrogate wife" at an early age by doing everything but touching me as he would an actual wife. My mother hid in their master bathroom or closet doing her hair, polishing and painting her face with extensive amounts of cleansers and make up, or obsessively organizing and reorganizing her fine shoes and clothing. I took up the slack by listening intently as my father discussed his work frustrations and dumped his emotional distress over what he called my mother's neurosis, icy heart and selfishness. He never touched me in a way that he would a wife or lover, but with the completeness of the rest of our "marriage", I probably would have let him. I would have believed it part of my job by giving him yet another path to feeling heard, attended to and loved.

But even that theory doesn't necessarily wash. I look back and can see that my desire to fuck was never based in a sense of needing independence from my dad or focused itself on those who seemed to also need someone to listen to them. In other words, I don't recall ever having any Daddy Drama attached to my clit; literally or figuratively.

The perfect specimen for my first fuck showed up when I was 15. He was an older, free wheeling blond wearing jean shorts, a stupid beer t-shirt and creating a frenzy around the idea of going to the river and drinking. A caravan of cars and trucks headed out immediately, stopping for beer and beach towels on the way. Where the Missouri River slides by the little town of Easly, Missouri it is dry, hot, deep and wide. God only knows how many of those I grew up with got drunk there and followed the path of so many who came before them by also peeing in strange places, taking the occasional inconvenient dump, throwing up, loosing their virginity, fucking their best friend's boyfriend or girlfriend, playing rock-n-roll music at a ridiculous level with little consideration for the fact that the stereo speakers in their mother's station wagon could scarcely handle it, and passing out along the banks of the river.

Though it might seem to take away from this post about my insatiable desire to fuck, I cannot stop myself from recounting one of the best pisses I ever took at the river.

Slightly drunk, my friend Wendy and I fell into a deeply blurry discussion regarding the fact that our bladders were on the verge of bursting. I think I even resorted to putting one of my hands between my legs to press the urge to pee away until we figured out what to do. We finally ran to the edge of a cliff over the river bank, dropped our pants, grabbed onto the branches of a tree, leaned our asses out over the river and laughed with relief over finally being able to pee. Just seconds into our relief we heard yelling and cat calls and realized two fishermen had stopped their boat below us on the river and were, I'm sure, getting a fantastic view of our asses and poon tangs. Wendy shook her ass over them and I straightened my legs in hopes of shoving my lower half further out over the river bank to give the fishermen a better view.

It's amazing I didn't become a stripper or prostitute. In many ways it's too bad I didn't, considering the amount of men I've entertained in my lifetime and the power, excitement I have always felt realizing the flash of an ass or nipple or impending gift of pussy can bring such joy to a man. Alas, it's probably a good thing I didn't. As much as I admire professions of the sexual kind, drugs always seem to go hand in hand with them and I'm quite sure I would have been as lost as ever in all of it.

The perfect specimen for my first fuck did a fine job of taking my virginity. We waited until we were away from the river and could retreat into the downstairs bedroom at the apartment of one of his friends. I had an almost immediate orgasm, he did all he could to be sweet afterward, and then seemed to understand my need to go running off to talk with one of my girlfriends about having just lost my virginity. When I later broke up with him he made sure to announce to anyone who would listen that I had no clue how to give a blow job and wouldn't let him fuck me in the ass. I admit I thought of him immediately when I was once, many years later, giving a Army Lieutenant Colonel a blow job and he moaned that I was doing such a fine job of it that he was going to declare me "war ready".

Today I find myself in my mid-forties and wondering about my desire to fuck more than ever. When I hear descriptions of some of the strange weather patterns caused by global warming I often think someone is plastering the now bizarre patterns of my sex drive on The Weather Channel. Instead of it being some kind of ongoing low-grade fever that could spike at any moment, it now either completely disappears for days on end, or comes on in a tornadic torrent so intense that I could practically dry hump the edge of a counter in the kitchen as I'm putting dishes away. When the tornadic torrent occurs I make an immediate trip to my husband or, if he is not at home, my bag of sex toys that it seems I can not get plugged in and inserted fast enough.

Frenzy. It's a nice word for for the tornadic torrent of this damned pattern. When my husband is home I find myself making demands that he immediately stop what he is doing, wake up, move over, make room, whatever...because I want to fuck. Right fucking now. Fuck.Me.Oh.Fuck.Yeah.

When my sex drive has disappeared he can ask for it all he wants and there is not one fiber of me interested. I might think to tell him I'm sorry. I might not. My drive will go so low, so nonexistent, that it's almost as if he is asking if I need more tea and I am politely declining. During these times I find myself hoping he is soothing the rejection with remembrances of when the tornadic torrent has occurred, and looking forward to when it returns.

But I don't know.

Perhaps this is one of those things I should discuss with him. I will. Just after I get done worrying that one day I will hit one of those nonexistent spells and the tornadic activity will never again return.