Hangover sex

MACDUFF

What three things does drink especially provoke?

PORTER

Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes. It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery. It makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him.

—

I’m lots of things when I’m drunk: cheerful, boisterous, melancholy, indiscreet, tactless, loquacious, impulsive…often all in the same night. I’m not a violent drunk, nor am I an angry drunk; I’m not vicious or nasty, or the kind of guy people are instinctively wary of after a few beers. Broadly speaking, I trust myself to get drunk and make decisions that stay the right side of the line separating A Bit Dumb from Really Fucking Stupid.

What I’m also not is a horny drunk. Not really. For me, booze often removes the desire as well as the performance: it leaves me mellow and relaxed, rather than fidgety and desperate. It’s not that I never want to fuck when I’m pissed, but it doesn’t accentuate or enhance my arousal in the same way that it does with other emotions and impulses. If I was happy at the start of a bottle of wine, I’ll be happier at the end; if I was sad, I’ll be sadder; if I was horny, then at best I’ll be roughly the same, and a lot of the time the drink will have taken the edge off things a bit.

Needless to say, this has been an occasional source of frustration for various girlfriends and fuckbuddies. I’ve been with several women for whom alcohol seemed to turbo-charge the libido, and while that’s normally worked out just fine from my point-of-view, there have also been those nights when all I’ve wanted to do is open another a bottle of wine and settle down in front of a movie, rather than have the sort of extra-loud, rough, sweaty, adventurous sex that lowered inhibitions and heightened emotions often encourage. It’s one of the big reasons why, these days, I often prefer to do things the other way round and fuck at the beginning of an evening out, rather than the end. Even if you occasionally miss out on some of the slow build-up, the anticipation, it sends you both out into the night feeling happy, buzzing and satisfied, and makes anything that happens later on feel like a bonus.

So I suppose I disagree with Macbeth’s Porter. Why am I writing about it now? Because last night I went to a dinner party and ended up somewhere between moderately wasted and completely shitfaced. I swayed home, passed out on my bed (fully-clothed – classy)…and woke up at 7.30 this morning feeling so fucking horny that I thought the vein running up the side of my cock was going to explode.

And that’s the thing. Alcohol does nothing to my libido at the time, but when I’m hungover the next morning I’m invariably also shaky and weak with lust. My head might be pounding, my mouth dry, but between my legs there’s almost more life and heat than I know how to handle. If I’ve had a good night’s sleep, and it’s late enough in the morning that the pain is more of a dull ache than a sharp, stabbing assault, that’s usually channelled into a slow, sleepy, spooning fuck, neither of us inclined to move more than is absolutely necessary, but both relishing the tightness, intimacy and warmth of lying together like that.

If it’s really early though; if the sunlight is pouring in through the window like an absolute bastard; and if my tongue feels gritty and furred, it’s a different story. This morning, I didn’t want gentle, snuggly sex. I wanted someone to push the duvet aside, straddle me, and ride my cock so hard and fast that she’d already be panting for breath by the time I flipped her onto all fours and nailed her from behind. I wanted it rough and dirty, and I wanted to be so dizzy and light-headed by the end that all I’d be able to do before passing out again would be to gulp down a few sips of sweet, clear, cold water from the bottle by my bed.

I don’t know the science behind it. I suspect it’s less a genuine increase in arousal, and more the giddy rush of your body returning to normal after having receptors dulled by booze, but either way, those hungover morning fucks are often among the most intense. They’re best at the weekend, of course, when you have time to enter the cycle of napping, eating and fucking that can see you still in the same sweaty, messy bed by the time the sun starts to go down again; even during the week though, when I know I should be rolling back over and catching up on precious sleep, waking up with a hangover invariably sees me reaching for the person next to me and pulling her in close, my cock pressed hard and hot against her arse.

When I’m alone, like I was this morning, I have to take matters into my own hands. I have to squeeze my thighs together, and clench my arse muscles, and rub my cock against the sheet, till I’m too horny and desperate to keep my hands off it any longer. A quick squeeze of lube, a few firm strokes up over the head, a noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan, and I can collapse again, limbs flopping down onto the mattress, and the room starting to blur and swim.

Hangover sex is great – whether or not you have someone there to enjoy it with you.