By “this”, I’m not too sure what I mean. But by “restless”, I absolutely mean horny.

There’s something in me that stirs and makes me feel some kinda way. This needy, horny feeling- as overwhelming and distracting as it is- is intoxicating. Everything else in my life becomes small. My body and the sensations I can give it become the only things that matter. The energy, the need, the hunger- it all swirls together and can only build and compound. I can edge all day or get off three times in a row, as hard as I can, and I’ll still want to roll around with myself some more. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. My body just can’t stop itself. I barely need to recharge, and the scents my cunt emits are like a heady perfume that lingers on my bed sheets, my sofa, my desk chair… 

I’m insatiable in this state. Fucking myself is never enough, and I’ve never had a lover who had the endurance or the timing to share this experience with me fully. I can’t just make this state happen, you see. It’s an ephemeral thing that inhabits me and then leaves without a warning. And I’m just left a wrecked mess of myself wondering what the fuck I just did. I spent how many hours fucking myself? I watched what kind of porn? Oh god, I never even texted to cancel those plans! I imagine this is similar to the feeling men describe as “post-nut clarity”, although my fugue state may have been an entire weekend. And I truly am left feeling like I was a woman possessed. 

I would conjure that demon at will if I could. Maybe let this spirit take over for a full week sometime and see how far it would take me on its ride. It certainly ruins my normal life when I’m like this, so I suppose I’m lucky that it comes around so infrequently and doesn’t do too much damage. Or maybe I wish it would do more damage. Maybe if I cast a spell and bind this demon to me forever, I could just let it take over completely. I’d lose my job, but I wouldn’t care. I’d lose my friends, my relationships, all my responsibilities and projects. But I wouldn’t care. Because all that would matter was what my body was feeling in that one moment, and those sensations would just keep building and compounding into…what? One big, final orgasm? Death? I could just fuck myself to death and I wouldn’t care, that’s how good it feels when the demon is inside me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of wonderful sex outside of this state of mind. My relationships are healthy and I’m not experiencing mania or job issues. My life is perfect otherwise. Too perfect. 

So I type away at my work and laugh with my friends and sleep with new play partners and enjoy walking my dog and watch the leaves turn pretty colors before it gets too cold. But I know that beneath the layers of a lovely life, I’m only a vessel. And at any moment, at it's whim only, it will fill me and I’ll want nothing to do with this lovely life.