The twitching uterus

I am hungry and it shows.
Not just for marble cake.
I am baby/man/sex/love hungry.
My appetite is voracious and terrifying I begin to see. It is the appetite of a thinking thirty-something with no clue what to think, and liable to throw herself in the path of any fertile loin that points itself casually in her direction - desirous of death by impaling - not for her any more the anxious, half-arsed adolescent fumbling of her entire twenties.
In that hellish poor-woman's emporium, Zara, I hear a baby voice that makes me think of Safiya and as my friend Andrea once memorably said, "my uterus twitches".
I am pursued for a date by a man that I am not drawn to - who thinking me beautiful and aloof (and posh) asks me out; by the second date I have seduced and 'drained' him as he says and I think he is scared and can now just smell the woman - the woman who wants to mate - and mate and mate - until the death.
In work I feel unloved... 'Unloved' I ask- is that what work was ever for? Why do I continue to search for love in all the hardest places - love from the shiny women at the make-up counter; love from the friendly greengrocer; love from my cold flatmate; love from my laptop; love from the street cat-whore. These are all hard surfaces that will not yield and embrace me, however much I radiate desire.