Accidentally Celibate to Incidental Hoebag

Did having sex after a sabbatical awaken the beast with two backs?

Jan 13, 2025

I did it. Literally. I dusted off the hoohaw and brought it out of early retirement. After being accidentally celibate, and then meeting a new guy at the dog park (Mike) who made my lady bits tingle — I took the furburger off furlough, and brought the Spam sandwich off its masturbatory sabbatical.

If you haven’t been following my dating/sex life lately, what have you been doing? Here’s the TL;DR version — during the pandemic I forgot to have sex and accidentally became celibate. I met a guy in the dog park, then I was nervous about going heels-to-Jesus again.

There, you’re caught up, and ready for my literary walk of shame.

(Except I have no shame.)

For some reason, you weirdos were anxiously awaiting the next installment of my will-they-or-won’t-they for my love life. You wanted to know if we did indeed play pelvic pinochle.

We did.

It was glorious.

And now I’ll answer the question if playing my hide-the-pickle would be like a bike. I successfully got back on the Mike…err, bike. Yay me, I got back on his horse. Wait, that’s not the right expression.

We oscillated the unmentionables, with multiple rounds of the no-pants dance-off. I think it was four times the first night, but I lost count after the third round of getting my canoe shellacked. Perhaps getting back on the horse was a wrong metaphor. Stallion, maybe.

And phew was I nervous that first round of boarding his beef bus.

Thankfully, he seemed to really know what he was doing. I caught on quickly though, so I guess the fun tunnel has muscle-tube memory just like any other muscle. But I’m happy that I picked a nice guy, who wasn’t out of practice — and one who knows how to effectively diddle the skittle.

Bring on the (Sick) Hoebag

The next morning, we woke up, naked — and sick. I had some sort of nasty cold or flu; he apparently had an escalated version of the plague. I think they call it Man Flu. Both of us spent the better part of the next week molly-coddling our sick selves and leaking from our faces.

After our boink fest, that wasn’t the orifices I’d hoped to be leaking from.

I don’t apologize for that last line.

The nervousness I had about bringing the hot pocket off the retirement docket completely overshadowed any foresight about what might happen after. Something that, knowing myself, I should have seen coming. A return to being a horny hoochie mama.

That’s right, I immediately went from accidentally celibate to incidental hoebag.

One single hot night of playing peek-a-boo with his vein cane in my flesh pipe — awoke the beast. I’d completely forgotten that having sex has a byproduct of making me want to have even more rounds of lust-and-thrust.

After waking up sick we spent over a week apart. A long, sexless, agonizing week. Well, for me, the hoebaggy one. He was too busy googling cures for the bubonic plague, and being mentally and physically overwhelmed by ‘the vapors’.

So there I was. With my sex drive not only turned back on, but accidentally put into hyperdrive after its long hymen-inducing hibernation.

Well, it’s back. And it’s horngry.

It might’ve been a mistake for this whore to get back on the horse. Especially when my stallion had kennel cough. He was in no condition to take the ckunge plunge, and I’m pretty sure would tell me to go fuck myself. Would I have to put things back into manual override with some lone-rangering — and bust out my previous lover, Buzz Nightgear?

Ugh, I didn’t want to regress back to my buzzy Bluetooth buddy.

You didn’t know they have Bluetooth now? They do.

Thankfully, our flu only lasted about 6 days. That’s approximately 2.5 Buzzy-McSelfie-Stick recharges, in case you were curious. Just long enough to remind me why I stopped having sex to begin — because I’d rather never have sex than infrequent sex.

At least when you don’t have sex, the slobber pocket sets itself to snooze.

But wake her up, and sheesh — there’s hell to pay, apparently.

I’d mentioned in my I’m-nervous-to-bone-again post that I’d been accidentally celibate for almost 5 years, and I did some math about how much sex I’d missed over that time period:

“The average person has sex 53 times a year. I’ve missed almost 5 years of taking the skinboat to Tuna Town — does that mean my new mister and I would need to do 265 times just to get me back where I should be mathematically?”

As one reader keenly pointed out, I’d need to add the 53 for this year as well, assuming it would take me that long to catch up. So that would be 318 times. Even if the stallion can go three rounds at my Churchill Downs per night, that’s still a lot.

But, apparently, my fun dungeon was immediately all for it.

And it only took one time of shooting the meat rocket into the sausage wallet to set it off.

So now I have a new problem, of being immediately horngry. But at least I can set aside my nervousness and fear of bringing the hoo-haw out of retirement. She’s out, and back with a vengeance.

I have a whole new set of nerves now though, like did I suck (and not in the fun way)? Although at this point, I feel fairly certain that he’s better at bonestorming than I am. Will I catch up? Or will I continue to be second string and fiddle to the stallion?

So, having said all this — was it worth dusting off the Vulvarine?

Abso-fucking-lutely.