After a long lockdown, much of the nation have got the horn
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Lockdown in London, 2020. Queuing in a Costa for a takeaway coffee, I find myself staring at a random man’s hairy forearms. I imagine them coiling round my waist, pulling me close. I am a 52-year-old, newly divorced consumer journalist – the closest I got to arousal pre-lockdown was looking at a perfectly loaded dishwasher – but I have a serious (and unexpected) case of pandemic lust.
The last year and a half has been a strange one for our sex lives, whether you’ve been in a relationship or not. Singletons like me, with no fellow inmate to join them in lockdown, found themselves yearning for any form of human touch, from anyone at all, even the hairdresser. Even when restrictions started to ease, we had to make do with chilly, distanced dates and furtive texts.