It’s spring in Toronto, and by that I mean it is the season where a man’s thoughts turn to love, and by that I mean sex. I woke up on Sunday to the first day in six months where I didn’t need a jacket to go outside. Within hours, lending credence to a biological imperative I know little about, I was extremely, extremely horny. I went to bed thinking about women—about the full curves of breasts, the smell of hair, the glint of eyes, and the manifold treasures to be found south of the equator.

This isn’t to say that I wasn’t horny and suddenly was. I’m always horny. It’s what I do. In fact, if I ranked a list of feelings in terms of their importance and frequency in my life, ‘horny’ would probably rank first, followed closely by ‘sleeping’ and ‘pretty drunk’. In the winter, though, this feeling sort of breaks down to a low background hum. It’s bothersome at times, of course, but in the absence of a girlfriend it’s nothing a few quiet minutes and a one-handed prayer to Onan won’t fix.

With the appearance of Spring, this low background hum suddenly amplified to a loud throbbing roar. It came like a wave. That wave has almost passed now. As I write this I seem to be back to normal, though I’m wondering if there are more waves to follow or if that’s it for a while. Sunday and Monday marked the crest of the wave, and it felt like drowning in Viagra. It felt like every cell in my body was buzzing like a hive with the collective purpose of meeting girls. It felt like being sixteen.

I’d forgotten how hard it was to be sixteen, with that feeling all the time—must mate must mate what about her say hi okay no mate must mate her say things her mate mate mate—bubbling away inside you. It’s a miracle I managed to have girlfriends. Come to think of it, it’s a miracle I wasn’t simply arrested for humping the leg of Leslie McDonald. Leslie was my “crush from afar” in ninth grade, and I worshiped her silently as one would an immaculate beautiful goddess you desperately, desperately wanted to sleep with.

Leslie didn’t know I existed. To be fair, I suppose it’s difficult to fault her, given the fact that I spent ninth grade strenuously avoiding conversation with her in any way. In life I lacked the suave confidence and, let’s face it, the bare motor skills needed to convince Leslie I was the one. But in my mind a 24-hour cinema unreeled, each featurette a variation on one or several of the following themes:

Leslie’s in Trouble! Oh no! A gang of punks in Metallica t-shirts threaten and insult Leslie, possibly even threaten her sexually. Will no one stop this madness? Luckily I step in and make short work of them with karate and punches that send people flying down hallways. Leslie is overcome with gratitude. And, looking deep inside her, perhaps something more. She slowly undoes her blouse.

Quiet Time. Through a string of coincidences, both Leslie and I get separated from our friends and find ourselves in a secluded sunny pasture/on a dock near a lake/in her bedroom/etc. The girl doesn’t know me from Adam, but it doesn’t take long before she notices something about me she never saw before. A certain tenderness, perhaps, coupled with a rugged, manly charm. She doesn’t know how she never saw these qualities before; all she knows is that she never wants to leave. We quickly succumb to passion. She slowly undoes her blouse.

Sport Star. It’s the day of the big game, and I make the winning basket/goal/touchdown. The whole town shows up to roar their approval, but I astound everyone by showing that I’m only after the approval of one person. Calling out Leslie’s name, I bring her out onto the playing field with me and profess my love in front of my adoring fans. Leslie slowly undoes her blouse.

The scenery and bit players changed on a daily basis depending on what movies I watched and who I was hanging out with at the time (after I discovered John Woo movies, for instance, the gang of punks in Metallica t-shirts wouldn’t take karate lying down, and quickly brandished firearms for a devastating gunfight with backflips).

But the themes were always there. In my imagination Leslie saw in me all the things that, in life, I did not possess. She swooned at my devil-may-care bravery (in real life my only fighting tactics were Running Away and Running Away Very Quickly). Leslie loved me for my hidden depths and complex poet’s soul (I read Batman comics and liked getting high with friends at an abandoned bulldozer behind the train tracks, then playing Super Mario Kart stoned). Leslie loved me for my athleticism (I am unable to dribble a basketball without it resulting in me lying on the floor bleeding).

Most importantly, Leslie responded to these qualities by giving herself to me, completely and repeatedly, in the soft meadows, musky boathouses and dimly-lit bedrooms of my mind. If I was given a second to think, I thought about sex. If I was asked to think about something else, like a math question or where the Super Mario Kart cartridge was, it would be considered with sex in the background always, like Windows wallpaper.

This was my life for my teenage years: thinking about getting laid. The alpha males at my high school soon grew wispy moustaches, won basketball trophies, developed shoulders and muscles, and then they actually got laid. This is what we were told in the locker room, anyway; and we, Males Beta through Omega, ate up the scraps like stowaways in the dank hull of the Love Boat. Which girls were sluts, which girls put out, which girls had certain features with their vaginas that, us being young and having only seen them through porn, believed to be freakish quirks instead of what vaginas look like.

Eventually one of the jocks, Mike, started dating Leslie, cursing me with the sort of life-devastating misery you can only get at 16—the sort of misery that typically results in awful poetry (yes, I wrote some. I believe it showcased my soul, and intense barrenness of same). Mike told no stories in the locker room, which, while hardly soothing balm, at least mitigated my personal hell. But then one time, after a particularly strenuous basketball game in gym class (that most likely left me on the floor bleeding), Jordan, another jock, goaded Mike into giving us all the details. And Mike, the fucker, gave all the details.

Mike didn't enjoy being the center of attention on this issue, to his credit. I look back on it now and realize Mike was most likely in a personal hell of his own, being forced to make up lurid stories about his girlfriend while his friends pushed him on. At the time though, I wanted nothing more than to jump up yelling, run at Mike, and flying kick a leg into his torso. According to Mike, Leslie went all the way in the back of his dad’s car. Leslie, in real life, had given to Mike what I’d fought for so hard every day in my imagination. The rage welled up inside me. How dare he. With Leslie. I’d show him.

Naturally I laughed with everyone else and hooted. It might make for better drama if I stood up and got my ass kicked for the honor of my imaginary girlfriend, but the truth is that Mike outweighed me by about thirty pounds of jock muscle. Sex was one thing, but self-preservation was another. Leslie would have to deal with having her good name left soiled on this one.

Eventually I grew up. I went to university, where the jocks weren’t as plentiful and the girls, even if they did prefer well-muscled studs, had to admit they were a scarce commodity and decided to make do with the rest of us. I got to first base. I got to second base. I rounded third and, eventually, scored a few homeruns. They were fast homeruns, really—I think I might have even skipped a few bases altogether and just sprinted for the plate—but I scored all the same. I got a girlfriend. I discovered relationships for the first time, the extension of sex that eventually trumps it, until sex is just one facet of a multi-faceted thing.

I also discovered that girls are insane, and that relationships are the biggest hassle in the universe about 50% of the time. The other 50% they are magical. Sadly, most of the magical 50% tends to occur in the first few weeks.

I got choosier in who I wanted to get into a relationship with. I graduated, got a job. Met less girls than I did in university, where they were everywhere. Now if I wanted to meet girls, I would have to go to clubs. When I started going, I realized to my horror that clublife mirrored high school; that I’d somehow regressed back ten years. The alpha males at these clubs grew wispy sideburns, had six-figure jobs, developed shoulders and muscles, and they actually got laid. I stood on the sidelines and sipped at my Budweiser.

And then this Sunday, feeling sixteen again not only in my sexual life but in my sexual drive. I think I attempted to talk to more strange women Monday than I had in the last three months. The most luck I got was in the supermarket. I spotted a cute girl at the checkout and got in line behind her, hoping to strike up a conversation. About what I hadn’t exactly considered. “Got lettuce, huh? Making a salad?” probably wasn’t the best approach. “Eat a lot, do you?” was most likely worse. I’d think of something. Then, just as I was about to make my move—something lame about the weather, I think—it happened. I got picked up myself. By a gay man, unfortunately, who’d spotted the book I’d been reading on the subway ride home and professed his love for the same author. The girl looked over at both of us and gave a smile, endorsing what she perceived to be a gay mating ritual taking place in front of her. Lacking any non-insane way to explain to both her and the guy that I was straight, I resignedly but politely chatted to the guy about books while she bagged up her items and left. This, as it turned out, would be my biggest success.

Sex drive. Who needs it? I think I was better off during my winter hibernation, to be honest. If the most it’s going to get me is standing around awkwardly in clubs, occasional fumbling sex and endlessly pacing the supermarkets and elevators of my neighborhood looking for available females—I guess it’s still worth it.

Just.