So now that I can walk into a room and immediately look at something tasty in the form of a strong and hopefully well-hung male package, I immediately undress it with my eyes.
I'm doing what perverts do to young girls – I imagine steamy [except borderline-legal] scenes in my head.
Like a fat kid to a doughnut, I have once again hit a frustrating level of horniness, fuelled by an overpowering cocktail of libido hormones.
It's been a long time since I saw a man and wondered what he looked like naked.
On impacting my optic membranes towards his upper torso and his bottom, I wondered just how much chest hair he had around the beautifully sized pectorals under his shirt.
I also wondered how much time it would take to pull the constricting piece of cloth off of his body, discard it like an old afghan on the floor, and throw him down on my bed.
And what it would be like to have this person naked, on top of me.
Not to mention what his forearms would look like when he propped me up against a piece of sturdy furniture.
Or like how his derriére would look from an aerial view. Naked.
Or like how he would look like in the shower, water beading down his body in rivulets, or like how I'd feel when he intensely Direct Eye-Contact Sex Gaze's me during a passionate bout of boofing.
All I could think of was seeing him naked. This is both perturbing and distracting. Especially when one is discussing, in ernest, the merits of First World infrastructure in light of public transport in foreign countries, for example.
If this is what is going to pull me back into the circle of happiness again, fine. If I feel like a fifteen year old every time I walk into a room filled with delicious dudes, then wonderful.
But imagining them all naked and sweaty and sexy and ready and...I'll be back. I have some business to take care of.