I awoke to a male turkey strutting his stuff outside my bedroom window. It’s mating season. I made a crack about it on Facebook which, in turn, resulted in some jokes about me being a voyeur. I maintain that I wouldn’t have looked if the dude hadn’t been so loud. But what’s wrong with looking anyway?

It’s been 26 days since I’ve touched another human being. I’ve been in proximity to a few, but always safely ‘distant.’ My closest encounter was at the health clinic, when I went to pick up prophylactic antibiotics for the tick bite, and the nurse, who was screening people at the door, took my temperature. She didn’t actually touch me, but she touched the monitor to me. That’s got to count for something.

All this not touching has to have consequences. Or will.

And I know I’m not alone thinking about it. I spent some time yesterday chatting with a fellow who shared some links to DIY sex toy videos. Masturbation, I’m told, is the safest option for me right now. Basically, I’ve become my own friend with benefits. But this is old news.

The New York Times reports the next safest option is a household sex partner (HSP). I’ve checked and they’re out on Amazon. For those who’ve made fun of me for my well-stocked pantry – long before we’d ever heard the word ‘Covid’ – I concede I may have gotten my priorities wrong.

To be honest, I’m not the most sex-obsessed person, so my concern isn’t entirely about that. It’s about touch. It’s about the little physical intimacies we share. And the small connections that remind us that we’re erotic creatures – stirred toward our full humanity by the feeling of another’s hand on our skin. You can’t do that on Zoom.

I know my concern is a long haul question. But I’m trying to get prepared. In the meantime, I’m organizing a craft night on Zoom to throw together some homespun sex toys. Who’s in?