It took some adjustment.
One, the gym switched to home yoga. Two, the spontaneous dining turned into planned trips to the grocery store and learning how to make a semi-decent quinoa salad from scratch. Three, goodbye to Tinder-dates at local bars and all the casual sex that came with them. Knowing that someone from my office had Covid, I had no choice but to quarantine in order to protect others. That was soon followed by a nationwide lockdown. Suddenly, my sex life had gone from hundred to nil.
So, what remained? Porn was there. As much as I tried, I just couldn't fully appreciate the vast libraries of sexual content that were just a few clicks away. Porn was simply not made with women in mind; while I could empathise with the leading lady, I felt deprived. No faces, no personalities. Before the pandemic I had often taken these things for granted. In retrospect, I had quite enjoyed these men, not merely for their bodies and the pleasure they could give me, but for their unique little characteristics, like the different ways they tasted, the different scents their skins emitted. Remove these things and what I'm left with is an adult film I'm not invested in.
I suppose my sex toys compensated some. They had always been there for the lonely hours. A dildo for penetration, a small vibrator for the clitoris. That was all I had needed for the times in between. They had always been reliable. Push here, rub here and I'd be blissfully squirming in my bed.
However, after a week even that changed. I could let the vibrator buzz against my clitoris for minutes on end, only to have it culminate in a lacklustre, forced climax. The body reacted when given no choice, but my mind wasn't in on it and wouldn't cooperate. And don't even let me get started on the dildo. Maybe I needed the feeling or illusion of passion. There was the physical need but no mental want. Instead of relieving stress, it began to give me stress. The longer it took to reach an orgasm, the more I felt my body broken. Day after day the situation got worse. One day I simply gave up and no longer bothered touching myself.
I had never had to rely on fantasies. My sudden loss of libido scared me, however, so these became daily exercises. It terrified me how nothing materialized in my mind, and eventually I was forced to conclude that I wasn't sure I knew what I liked in men. My past lovers had been everything from dad bods to eight packs, from dark to blonde. The one thing shared by all was their short-lived novelty: the thrill and excitement of each new playmate. They were all equal in my eyes with nobody standing out as special. With all the excess time I had, I began to analyse my past relationships and soon realized that the term "relationship" might not have been too fitting after all.
I had to figure out what I liked: cue in the Too Hot To Handle -marathon. All of them were attractive, obviously. Still, I felt nothing. It wasn't about the looks, then. All I knew was that I wanted something, but I did not know what. The man of my fantasies acted elusive even in my dreams, always out of reach, as cloudy and undefined as he was in real life.
The death of my sexuality manifested itself as a depressive episode. The little exercise I had felt like a chore, so I gave it up. The planned mealtimes turned into endless snacking. The mundanity of everyday life was only spiced up by day-drinking whenever my work allowed it.
I tried internet chatrooms. I kept on getting matched with men who probably had nice personalities but there was no physical attraction. I hated my own vanity. I was too curious and paranoid not to ask the person on the other side to reveal their looks to me. Who knows it might have been my boss or even my own father. I spent hours on my computer, all on top of the hours already spent for work. After a couple of days, I had to admit defeat.
***
As the nights got warmer, I made a habit of reading on my lone balcony in the evenings. I simply read whatever there was unread on my bookcase. None of it was romance, I'm afraid, but frankly the cynic in me had always found it difficult not to snicker at the melodrama. Still, it became a nice meditative ritual. There would be some light shining out from the kitchen and I'd have a glass of Tempranillo to keep me warm in my pyjama pants and top after the sun had gone down.
My balcony faced a small unlit garden, shared by all the inhabitants of that tiny apartment building. It was seldom used since it had no privacy. It was surrounded by other apartment buildings and all the tenants had their balconies and windows facing that little green plot. Still, it was well-maintained and nice to look at. A sobering sight for one spending so much time indoors.
One night while I was reading a book by Timothy Findley, I suddenly noticed how the clouds had moved away to reveal a beautifully patterned night sky. The stars, even a shiny red one that I suspected to be Mars, were all prevalent due to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the city. I was compelled to place down my copy, turn off the kitchen light and return to the balcony and marvel at the celestial spectacle of shooting stars and wandering satellites, silently taking sips from my glass of wine as the minutes went on.
I listened to the singing of the birds in the night. The traffic on the street on the other side of the building had completely died down. It was odd how the soundscape had suddenly gotten so natural, only because of some odd virus. On a normal summer night like this, there would be someone having a party, sounds of which would echo in the sheltered garden. But from what I could hear and see, it was as if I was the only person on earth. It was one of those rare moments when I didn't find the thought all that intimidating.
A light switched on in one of the buildings across the garden. I didn't even have time to get irritated at the unwelcome disturbance when the culprit came into sight.
It was a young man. From where I sat, a handsome man. It seemed as if he had just come home from work, for he immediately dropped a heavy looking bag off his shoulder on what I assumed was the living room divan. He must have been tired: he sauntered around the room in a lazy manner of someone whose legs could barely carry him. It was as if each step he took was weighed down by responsibility. Not that one could detect it on his face. It was as if he had just washed it in a cold spring, his skin looked that smooth and fresh. His jawline could have cut glass. As he was backlit, I couldn't distinguish the colour of his hair, which might have been anything from blonde to brown. He didn't smile but for some reason I imagined him extremely kind. In spite of the visible exhaustion there was no sign of bitterness on his face. It was like he had accepted is as something natural, like the result of a healthy bodily exercise. He just seemed grateful to be home.
I did not move but my eyes followed him closely as he settled in for the night. As if in fear of detection, I didn't make a sound nor dared I make an attempt of placing the wine glass back on the table. There must have been at least 400 yards of blackness between us, yet I thought any movement might expose me. For some reason, I was worried of scaring him off.
Something about this stranger mesmerized me: the way he opened the door to his balcony and stood by the railing, staring at the stars while he smoked his cigarette; I saw the orange spark of it light up every time his fingers moved up to his lips.
Then his face tilted ever-so-slightly downwards. I couldn't be certain of it, but it almost felt like he might have been staring right at me. The worry that he might see the outlines of my person sitting there in the darkness, quiet and immobile, unsettled me. For a brief moment, I thought of casually moving somehow: to make it seem like I hadn't tried to blend into my surroundings and escape being discovered. But before I knew it, it was too late.
He turned to go back inside. As soon as the door closed behind him, I exhaled all the air I had been keeping in my lungs for those five minutes. As he was walking past the big arched windows, I saw him carelessly toss away the shirt off his back, allowing me to briefly admire the well-formed muscles before disappearing out of view.
The stone floor of the balcony felt cold against my feet, but my cheeks were on fire. When I finally returned to my senses and decided that the whole incident had been an embarrassing farce, I gathered my things and sneaked back into the quiet security of the apartment. Like a young girl, I ran to my bed and hid myself under the blankets. Yet even then, I stole glances at my window and the shining light across the garden, half expecting him to return and check if that strange girl was still stalking him eerily in the quiet night.
***
The next morning, I decided to have my breakfast on the balcony. I argued to myself that there was no point in having a balcony, if I didn't use it during the few hours that it received sunlight. But I could not convincingly lie to myself that the reason behind my little picnic had something to do with the previous night. As I was chewing on the toast and sipping my tea, I let my eyes casually wander around the garden, first casually avoiding and then finally settling on the distant apartment on the other side. It looked as if abandoned. Another neighbour, on the other hand, was hanging out her laundry on the balcony below it, while a sweaty middle-aged man was mowing the grass on the neighbouring lawn. Suddenly I felt quite glad that I had worn my usual PJs and spaghetti straps instead of the sexy negligee as I had planned. Eventually the breakfast turned into a brunch, and I was forced to admit defeat; there was no sign of the handsome stranger.
Then I could no longer delay the inevitable: it was time to start working. Annoyingly my office faced the street, which meant I would have to forget about this man for the time being. Sluggishly I got on with my tasks, unable to fully concentrate, for I was inexplicably excited about this new acquaintance. I was positive I had not seen him before, not in the neighbour nor this town.
Still uncertain whether he had been aware of my presence that night, I replayed the scene in my head. I hoped to find some kind of a clue but could think of nothing conclusive. Didn't he look into my general direction? Did he see me? And if he did see me, did he mind me? I sighed over my work. I missed normalcy. I missed going to the office, flirting with the guy from PR, the business and leisure having their designated times and places. All the hours spent indoors made me feel like I was slowly losing my mind. The fact that I was spending my day obsessing over a man whose name I didn't even know seemed just like another symptom of cabin fever.
***
The evening came and I took my place on the balcony. This time I was dolled up. I wore a simple white dress and more make up than I had in weeks. I reopened my Findley but had trouble concentrating. My mind was too preoccupied, and I kept compulsively checking that the lights in his apartment hadn't suddenly been switched on. It was silly but it was more excitement than I had had in weeks.
Minutes turned into hours. The night sky was cloudy and tucked the town in with the day's heat. I was getting quite drowsy, the kind of lulled state where the time becomes fluid and barely real. I was too tired to be anxious.
