The virtues of being horny

When I was in Langkawi, about 2 weeks ago, I woke up one morning feeling more than usually horny. It happens, and regularly, though I can’t say why. If you benchmark my usual levels of sexual appetite at about 100 then sometimes, rarely, it might dip to about 80, and other times swell to around 900 (it aint pretty). On this day I felt vibrant and the world about me a place of infinite sensual possibility.

I left my room for breakfast and found myself the first guest in the dining area. I was chatting with one of the owners when the first of the other guests arrived, a neatly built, attractive Indian girl, her boyfriend still obviously sleeping in. The next guests appeared then, a Chinese couple from KL, the woman not beautiful, but very feminine. Finally, the other guests arrived, a French couple, the woman lithe and fit and with an interesting look.

I continued my conversation with my temporary friend while my mind raced.

I don’t really know what is in the minds of other men, though often I presume that I do. I presume they are much like me when it comes to matters of sex, that while they might not zoom to 900 like I do they will often be preoccupied and distracted by speculation and anticipation of matters sexual. I imagine that they experience similar flights of fantasy, and at times have that confirmed in occasional conversations with my mates. I think I’m likely randier than most, but the difference is more likely to be in extent rather in the type of desire. But I don’t really know.

Sometimes when I’m bored and feeling a bit antsy I’ll play a game. I’ll be sitting on a train or a tram and I’ll look about me. I’ll look at the women, going from one to the other, gradually ranking them in my mind from the first person I would want to have sex with, to the last. That done, and presumably, a few more stops to cover, I’ll subtly change the rules of the game. This time I ask myself which I would want to have a relationship with most. Often, mostly, the lists are quite different from each other, those you want to fuck, those you want to marry.

I went through this exercise that morning in Langkawi. Which is it I wondered, the cute Indian, the feminine Chinese, or the sporty French girl? They were all attractive, but the decision came easily to me: the feminine Chinese.

The reasons may surprise someone who believes exercises like this are simply about objectifying women for sexual cravings. The Chinese girl didn’t come out on top because she was feminine, or because she was the ‘sexiest’, but because she captured my imagination. How?

As I glanced across to her I observed how she ate her breakfast, the way she lifted her head to talk to her boyfriend, the way she sat there. Her feet were folded beneath the chair as she leaned forward, her little sandals having slipped off and feet bare and crossed. As she wielded a fork with her right hand she held her long, dark hair with her left, sweeping it away from her face and out of her food, at the back of her head. It was obviously something she had become habituated to do over the years, and it revealed both personality and a back story. It gave some insight to the person, and as a sight was both unusual and cute. In a sense, with her feet innocently bare, and this unique gesture, I was some way towards knowing her – and keen to know more.

It’s easy to play down sexual desire as being all about the sex, but – in my case at least – that would be false. Imagination plays a great part in the experience and often lends a delicious edge to it. There’s no denying the great pleasure in a spontaneous fuck over the kitchen bench, or a chance and abrupt sexual encounter with a stranger. Long may they occur. But equally, and perhaps differently, the pleasures of anticipation, imagination and the slowly coalescing sexual burn are never to be discounted.

I can remember once asking a girl to help me with my cuff-links. She was a girl I knew quite well and liked, but had not yet made that connection. I watched as with her dextrous fingers she slotted the cuff-links through the buttonholes on my cuffs, her face creased with concentration, focussed on this minor and passing activity. Suddenly I felt captured by her. Until then I had been conditioned to see her only in a certain way. Suddenly I saw her differently. I sensed some deeper part of the inner person. In her eyes I saw depths I had never bothered to look for. I could see the individual hairs of her eye-lashes separately. Close as we were I inhaled her scent, a mixture of soap and perfume and skin. I need only to have leaned in a few inches and kissed her. I didn’t, but for the first time became alert to her sexual presence. I’d probably idly looked at her before, but now it was real and pressing. She was whole you see, a desirable package not just of body and the bits that make up a woman, but the pieces inside, the tenderness and intelligence, the quirks and history and the things that made her, her.

It’s an alluring package, and suddenly you want that package to be alive to you as you are to her. You want, you desire, fiercely, you anticipate that – and you want to see it in her eyes too.

I am perhaps a bit different to most men in that my imagination is more active, more vivid, and maybe just a little more out there too. I have a strong seam of sensuality running through me also that allows me to enjoy these seemingly small elements that so many will overlook. I think that is different.

Nothing happened with the Chinese girl, nor throughout the day. I went to the beach, I read, I swam in the pool, I went out for dinner, and later in the evening, I returned to the hotel.

I felt just as horny then as I had earlier in the day, but resigned to the fact that it would come to nothing. Mostly that’s as it is. I sat down with a glass of wine at the bar. Soon I was joined at the bar by one of the co-owners, a Chinese Malaysian from somewhere south of KL who had gone to school in Melbourne. She was about 35, lesbian – her partner in the venture was her partner in life – and intelligent. In our early encounters, she had seemed intimidated by me, or so it felt. It had seemed as if she was abnormally alert to whatever I said or wanted and ready to respond whichever direction I went in. Now she was more comfortable with me.

She was clearly the butch half of her relationship, but much more attractive to me than her partner, who I found flowery and over-done. She was not conventionally attractive, and likely had little interest in being so. Her dark hair was cut short, she dressed in masculine clothes, her body wiry, her breasts small, and her face without make-up. Still, as we spoke I found myself drawn to her. In hindsight, I think the way in had been her earlier hesitancy with me, which had drawn my attention and got me wondering at her. Now, as she told me about her schooldays and the challenges of running a hotel and stories about Arab guests and so on, I began to speculate. I looked in her eyes with my arousal growing. So what if she’s gay, I thought. Like so often before I undressed her in my mind bit by bit. Sure, her breasts were small, but to my surprise, I found an attractive figure, imagined the perspiration I could see on her skin now spread as we had sex back in my room, imagined her naked body entwined with mine. She would be a willing and adventurous lover, I thought.

Alas, it was only fantasy. We did not rendezvous later, but it’s a story illustrative of the strong part imagination plays in desire. And how important it is – for me anyway – to get some fragment of the other to get inside them as a person. I love being horny.