sex on the page

All the sex has ended up on the page. There is nothing left in me. I am exhausted. Today there is no sex. I masturbate because it stops me from being quite so sad, but I have no heart for it and when it is over I am still tired. The endorphins are hidden from me.

I wore my low and strappy dress to work because of the heat. Suffocating heat. I couldn't breath with my chest covered. Someone commented favourably and I remembered that I had been hiding my breasts at work and that they used to be a trademark of mine and this made me tired as well.

I have left my sexuality on the page and all that I own now is a body which is unweildy and cramping my style. I could lie in bed for a week just to sleep. All the sex is squeezed out of me, bound up with an elastic band, shrouded in bubble wrap, thumped down into the red postbox across the road. I have no sex left. I am sexless, and yet here is my blog stamping at my heels like a whingy child and some days I just want to kill it. Some days I want to abandon it on a bus or leave it in a car with the windows wound all the way up. On summer's days like this particularly when I am all sweat damp and heavy with dissapointment.