Depressed, but no less horny …

In the post I wrote yesterday there was a quote which said:

Emotionally I feel I can get more stressed out and worked up about little things that aren’t significant.

The quote isn’t in any real context on the site I took it from, so I don’t know whether it’s linked to disability + depression, or just plain depression. But god, I know the feeling.

Depression makes me more impulsive than ever: while it’s slowing down my ability to fall asleep, to get out of the shower, to cook a meal or get out of bed and go to work in the morning, it makes me much more likely to tweet / blog etc. without thinking it through first, which means you’ll see more deleted tweets and blog posts when I am depressed than when I’m not. It’s not a cry for help as such, just me trying to work through my feelings outside of my head, because they’re suffocating me in there.

And I’m impulsive in other ways, too. When I’m well, I’m liberal with my affection, when I’m depressed I just want everyone to fuck off. Which is problematic when the opportunity for sex falls right in the middle of such a period.

I’ll push the boy away because ‘Argh, I’m vulnerable, don’t you dare hurt me!’ and because everything he does when I feel this way feels like a deliberate assault on my emotions. If he writes about what other people say about the stuff he writes about, my reaction is very, ‘Well, obviously my views don’t count, because what do I know about this stuff.’ (This is a great indicator of mental health, because I don’t usually doubt the validity of my viewpoint.) If he writes about the kind of sex he wants / likes, it sometimes feels like being punched, if all I fancy is some calm affection.

There are two ways of handling this. One is to back away from social media, take the blog offline, admit that I can’t deal with the effects of putting myself in the public arena this way. The other is to not be swayed by what he says, to accept that he (presumably) gets other stuff from the time he spends with me.

So, if I wasn’t to push him away in an impulsive fit of depressive pique, what kind of sex would I want? Honestly, nothing that exciting. At the top of my staircase, just before you turn into the bedroom, there’s a corner where it’s pretty easy to trap someone.

I don’t want to talk about stuff (look at where words get me), I just want him to take the stairs two at a time, to box me in in that corner and kiss me until I forget what I was scared of. I want to feel him stiffening in his jeans, as he holds my wrists above my head and stops me calling the shots.

When we move to the bedroom, I want him on top – teasing me, pushing just the tip of his cock inside me and still kissing me the whole time – the overwhelming desire to have him push every inch deep inside me stopping me from retreating back into my own headspace.

And then I want the thrusts to be deep, unrelenting, forceful – again, keeping me centred in the moment, on the feel of his damp skin beneath my fingers and the solidity of his cock inside me.

I want him to come inside me.

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