I’m Nervous To Dust Off the Hoohaw After Being Accidentally Celibate

Getting back on his horse might be weird

Image from Giphy

Welcome back to all my readers that are on the Mike (my new guy) journey. First, you read about our dog park meet-cute, then him ladiefying his apartment. Now, I bring you one just from my perspective…getting back on his horse…err, the horse.

If you’re following my ‘Stack journey here, I thought I’d give y’all a little update. I’m getting closer to my goal of getting my Susbtack checkmark—only 11 more subscriptions to go! I’m so excited, but more importantly grateful to all of you who have helped me get where I am.

For anyone who has the ability but hasn’t become a paid supportive subscriber yet, I have options at the end of this post that start at just $10 for the whole year.

Anyhoozy, here’s my next silly story…

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Move over involuntary celibates, there’s a new sexless sheriff in town — accidentally celibate. What’s the difference? Well, the former means nobody is trying to have gland-to-gland combat with you (if you didn’t like that term for sex, you may want to leave now…it gets worse).

I’m the latter, which means either nobody is trying or I didn’t notice. I just forgot about bumping uglies.

I accidentally forgot about riding the bologne pony.

Whoopsy fuck, I knew I forgot something. I just assumed it was watering the plants, not lubing up my furry ficus.

Becoming accidentally celibate is easier than it sounds. For me, it happened during the pandemic. While the world locked down, so did my vagina. It just forgot to open back up again.

That was back in 2020. So it’s been, ahem, a few years.

If you want a visual of my current predickament, imagine that scene from the movie Drop Dead Fred, where the imaginary friend character, Fred, slid on the floor between the mom’s legs, pointed up, and said, “Cobwebs”.

I’m not sure if my coochie closed over, but it definitely has some cobwebs to dust off.

This wasn’t an issue until recently. But now I’m dating someone new, a guy I met in the dog park — Mike. He’s a tall drink of water at 6'4 and has hands that could eclipse my head. Draw what you will from that information. I didn’t mean to put my sexual smorgasbord back on the menu, but we clicked in the dog park, started dating and here we are.

We’ve been going out for dinners, movies, mini golf, and to a gaming arcade. All cutesy date spots, where we endlessly chat, flirt, give hugs and cuddles, and then kiss each other goodbye. But pretty soon we’ll need to up the sexual ante, and clean the cobwebs from my womb room. It’s a natural progression after developing a solid connection.

Image from Giphy

And I’m nervous to dust off the beef curtains again.

It’s been almost 5 years after all. Is riding a bald-headed giggle stick like riding a bike? Will I remember how to do the mattress polka?

What if things have changed, he laughs and says, “Oh honey, we don’t do it like that anymore”. Has sex changed at all post-pandemic? Or is doing the tube snake boogie still the same as it’s been since caveman days, minus the fur and clubbing?

I’ve had a hoey past, so it’s not my first time vulcanizing the whoopee stick. But after 5 years of upright wink retirement, it feels nerve-wracking — like it did in my first few years of fornicating. Exploring Punarnia after my hiatus feels like it will be a strange experience.

Plus, I have to show somebody my body again, and gravity feels like it’s been overactive since the pandy started.

Despite calling sex terms like ‘Cattle-prodding the oyster ditch with the lap rocket’ — I’m not a teen boy, I’m in my early 40s. So I’ve had four decades to come to terms with my body. But the friggin’ thing keeps changing when I’m not looking. Now when I lay down, my tata’s try to flee and end up taking up refuge in my armpits. My ass just flat-out ran away a couple of years ago.

I never had a hard body, but it’s gotten extra squishy these last few years.

And now I need to squeegee it out of my clothes and show it to somebody.

I’m aware that my body issues are my issue. I’m sure he’ll be happy to just be seeing me nekkid. He won’t know that my Titsie Rolls used to point a little more towards the North Pole. He’ll just see boobs, and all shirt turnips are fun to play with.

Image from Giphy

There’s no doubt in my mind that I care more about the state of my Julius Squeezers than he will be. All of this sexy nervous ranting is just me thinking — or writing — out loud. Luckily, I’m dating an incredibly sweet guy. He’s fine with me being nervous about it, and we’ve been taking it slow.

But he’s so sweet (and sexy) that I’m now officially sick of taking it slow.

I’m ready to start playing hide the cannoli. But I still have a few anxious thoughts rolling around in my brain bucket. Hopefully, they’ll fade away as the blood rushes away from it though.

One such concern that occurred to me is — do I have to catch up on lost time?

Or do I get to?

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?

Well, it’s possible from my end — since I’m also a little worried about going from accidentally celibate to intentionally hoebaggy. I don’t do anything half-assed, and if I dust off the ole slobber pocket I might turn into a maniac.

Mr Nice Guy reads my articles, so perhaps the above dunking-the-dingus math will scare him away before I even get to find out.

However, if he’s anything like my inner skankbag, he’ll say ‘Challenge accepted’ about stuffin’ my muffin 265 times. So I guess now I’m just hoping that after writing this, I’m not stuck up Coochie Creek without a paddle.

Image from Giphy.

That last bit is a joke, we’ve taken the time to get to know each other and build a connection. We dig each other, and I’m sure after we start squishin’ the gibbly bits and thrashing the gash — we’ll like each other even more.

But I’m still nervous about oscillating the unmentionables.

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