I Tried Very Hard Not To Turn This Into A Romance Novel

I really miss sex. A lot. A lot a lot. I am sure there exists many better ways of putting it, but whatever merits that type of language may have it lacks the singular and forceful conviction necessary.

Its not that I'm horny, (I am.) its more than that. If I was merely in need of getting off then I could just do what I have done practically every day of my life since I figured out how to do it.

It is a wholesale longing for everything associated with sex, not just orgasmic gratification. And the more I think about it the worse it gets. The solution would be of course to not think about it, but that has the same likelihood of happening as me actually having sex before I finish this paragraph. Any distraction I attempt is either too mild to distract me fully or it simply serves to remind me. Even something as intense as Hajji lobbing mortars and rockets onto the FOB, which forces me to immediately contemplate my own mortality, strikes a fear deep inside me that I die without ever having sex again. Which leaves me with a pounding pulse and a twisted head; taking stock of my life and wishing feverishly I had someone to fuck.

I miss everything about sex. I miss not just the feel, but the taste and smell and the sound. I miss the way it seems to both deaden and heighten the senses. I miss the feeling of surrendering so fully to the feeling that all perspective is lost.

So here I am, laying on a rock-hard mattress awake the entire night thinking about sex. Sex I have had, sex I wished I had had, sex I want to have, and sex I am going to have when I get out of this evil, backward country. When I get back to the land of green grass and high-proof alcohol where there is a large bed with a beautiful, sexy girl who fucks like a goddess waiting for me.