Lately, my sex drive has spiraled out of control. It's been so high that I've wondered if my fertility is at an all-time peak and my biological clock is screaming at me to BEAR CHILDREN RIGHT NOW BITCH, BEFORE IT'S TOO F*CKING LATE.
"But I'm NOT reaaaaady," I've been whining back. I mean, come on! I would like to at least try to find some semblance of a wife (and a life) before I bang out a baby.
I was drinking a glass of rosé by myself at my local Upper East Side rich-old-person hangout, blissfully basking in the strong stench of Chanel No. 5 and drunkenly gazing at the endless strings of pearls, heads of silver hair and tweed skirt suits, when it struck me: Maybe my biological clock isn't screaming at me to procreate just yet. I always feel overcome with lust this time of year.
The moment the weather shifts from brutal New York City winter to whimsical, flowery, carefree SPRING, I start to feel insanely horny.
Even my skin is more sensitive, the lightest graze of my arm sending me into the throes of orgasmic chills. When I was getting my painful rib tattoo this weekend, the vibrating needle turned me on. But we will save that bizarrely sexual experience for a different article.
The point is, SPRING makes my libido skyrocket. And it turns out I'm hardly alone in this. My friends have been expressing their irrepressible horniness to me, too.
After gulping down some cheap white wine and sinking into the couch in my apartment, Tia* cried to me that she was "one sexless night away from relapsing with my ex." The other day over a proper cup of English tea, my proper English friend Cate* savagely bit into a slice of cake and licked frosting off her spoon with a sensuality that made me uncomfortable. And just this morning, Melanie* texted me "OMG WHY IS EVERYONE ON THE L TRAIN SO HOT TODAY" in ALL caps.
But it's strange because we aren't experiencing a slutty kind of horny. This is a sweeter kind of horny. It's not a "I WANT TO F*CK YOUR BRAINS OUT" horny. It's more of a "I want to kiss your luscious lips beneath a starry sky all night long and breathe in your precious scent and be intoxicated by your pheromones" horny. It's a springtime horny.
My horniness is not the only thing that's shifted with the advent of spring. A lot has changed. I feel an inherent difference in my bones. I've come down with an irrepressible, untreatable bout of SPRING FEVER, kittens.
Here are my symptoms.
1. My sex drive is out of control.
2. I have an irrepressible thirst for rosé.
All winter I've been riding fast on the white wine train. Basic, I know. But you know what's more basic than WHITE WINE? Rosé, baby. Ro-f*cking-sé. When the unquenchable thirst for that pretty pink wine strikes, I know spring has arrived.
I was recently sitting pretty at a late night dinner when it hit me. "I MUST have a glass of rosé," I declared, interrupting a heated political debate.
"Who drinks rosé?!" a mean lesbian who always picks on me sneered, slugging back her beer.
"Actually, rosé sounds like a GREAT idea, Zara!" a chic lesbian producer visiting from LA said, flagging down the waitress.
By the end of the night, all the girls joined me on the gleeful rosé ride, while the bully drank her beer alone.
3. I'm fixated on pastels.
Look, babes. I was born in the cruel, cold New York City, and I live in black dresses and black tights and black boots. I've been rocking the Wednesday Addams look since I was 14. I downloaded the gothic emojis the first day they came out. I'm a dark and brooding girl creature devoid of color.
However, ever since SPRING has SPRUNG, I've been obsessing over pastels. This happens to me every year, and it jars me every time. I go from a black leather lesbian to a pastel-adorned, virginal flower child overnight (OK, maybe that's pushing it, but you get the point).
Luckily, my strong, gothic aura still manages to make the powder blue sweaters look a little edgy, and my pastel moment is fleeting. The second summer hits, I'm all about that jet-black bikini. It's not summer without a jet-black bikini.
4. I feel temporarily freed from dark thoughts.
I suffer from what my lovely brother refers to as "dark thoughts." This basically means I'll be daydreaming on the subway when BAM, I'll suddenly imagine the train tragically crashing and I'll visualize myself flying through the glass, my limp body strewn across the tracks.
Melodramatic and dark, I know. But I'm just wired this way. My whole family is. It's genetic.
However, lately the dark thoughts have been replaced by freakishly positive, sweet thoughts. I'm dreaming of wild, gorgeous daisies in open f*cking fields in the Dutch countryside instead. It's weird.
5. I have out-of-character culinary cravings.
In the winter, my palate is overcome with cravings for blood red steak paired with blood red wine. However, now I'm craving this LA hippie sh*t that I never crave. Like $9.00 raw juices and Paleo pumpkin pancakes (yes, I had them the other day, and they were $16, and they were delicious) and couscous with wild salmon.
6. I want to rock a lob.
Long, dark hair is rooted into my identity. Sometimes, I'll even use clip-in hair extensions to make it longer and darker and vampier.
However, come spring, I have to FIGHT the urge to cut a LOB (long bob). There is just something spiritual and spring about cutting off all those dead ends and prancing around with a swingy bob.
The only trouble is, once spring subsides, I hate my f*cking lob and have to spend $1500 on hair extensions so I can go back to looking like a young Morticia again.
Oh well. This bout of spring fever will eventually subside, and we will go back to our miserable, chic selves again soon.
Until then, don't fight the spring fever; sink into the fever. I mean, the only way to get rid of a fever is to sweat it out, right?
*Name has been changed.