I’ve spent the past few days trying to convince my girlfriend that I don’t have COVID-19. This is, of course, despite all evidence to the contrary – I have been
off work slacking working from home for the past week, for example, due to a positive case of COVID-19 in the team I work with.
This might not be so alarming were it not for the fact that my body has been in open rebellion for about as long. I didn’t even have any COVID symptoms until yesterday, when I started coughing increasingly throatily. Last night I started shivering in the middle of the night, before I got up to cough up bile and vomit spectacularly into the toilet. Today I slept until 1.
Talking is painful. Breathing hurts. And I’m so, so cold.
I’m not overly concerned, because I’ve had these symptoms before – I went through the entirety of Eroticon 2018 with bronchitis and once battled through half an hour of work with norovirus, and this feels like one (or both) of them. It’s not the first time I’ve been susceptible. I have, of course, ordered a home test in case this is a coronavirus, but it doesn’t feel like it is.
Not that it feels particularly good, either.
Whatever this is, it boils down to “ILB is not well.” And it’s getting worse. I don’t think I’ll be going back to work next week, really.
Being sick does odd things to my sex life. Being unable to sleep, but throaty and coughing like Tecwen Whittock, means that I am staying up later than usual (and not going to work means that that doesn’t knock out my concentration as much as it otherwise would). And – as the later it is, the hornier I get – I’m sitting at my computer, my lower half stiffening, my upper half screaming, making me feeling not just grotski, but torn.
And so I’ve been living this sort of confused half-existence (once my girlfriend has gone to bed; she has been an excellent nurse the rest of the time) for these past few nights.
On Wednesday, I found myself scrolling through porn for no real purpose other than the fact that I could.
On Thursday, I lurked in a Chaturbate model’s livestream listening to the 80s synthpop she was playing since I didn’t have the energy to cue any up myself.
On Friday, I stayed up until well past midnight chatting informally to a friend while she was casually cybering three girls in separate windows.
On Saturday, once I had determined the fact that I wasn’t going to get any sleep, I swaddled myself in my dressing gown and sat in the lounge reading sci-fi until 3am. And I was still turned on.
But I haven’t been touching myself. I don’t trust myself to. Taking clothes off means being cold, and being cold is something I’m trying my hardest to avoid. When I orgasm, I cough, and coughing currently leads to pain, or retching, or worse. Coupled with the fact that my IBS has been active recently, this all means that I’m a General Mess, and we should always say no to GM.
[Pause while ILB waits for the laughter and applause.]
But here we are on Sunday evening and I have had enough. I’ve got Halls Soothers, soluble paracetamol, and a bottle of Benylin all on hand. My mum brought me a massive box of teabags. I mean, I’ve even got lemon juice and honey from Bee if I want to go all in with the traditional home remedies. If I knuckle down on this, I can fight it. It may be painful, and it may be making me sick, and – even if I don’t think it is – it may end up being COVID-19 after all.
But if I can get through this, I can get my sexy back.
INTO THE TEETH OF THE STORM!