You know what I love about casual sex? You can tell ‘em to get the fuck out at 4:30 in the morning, and still roll over, and have a great few hours of sleep. It’s awesome.
I toss, I turn, I fidget. I stare at the walls, wonder when rest is gonna find me. And I hate it, because even though I care about the guy, I’ll find myself sort of resenting that he’s there. And then I resent that, because I know I don’t resent him, and I resent feeling resentful.
Luckily, there’s a couch, a wall, and a door. Ah, the fine art of boundaries.
I’m one of these people, that even thought I’m a passionate romantic and love to fuck like the Energizer Bunny, I don’t have many issues with the idea of sleeping separately. I’d rather be able to sleep together, spoon, caress, plant kisses on the shoulder or suck his fingers, but when it comes down to it, if I have to choose between half-conscious affection, or a good night’s sleep and a lazy Sunday filled intermittently with rambunctious fucking, well, let’s just save ourselves the coin-toss, all right? I know what I want.
But, you know, in a perfect world, I wouldn’t live in a little 1952 character apartment with limited bedroom space and the appropriately-sized double bed. I’d have a sprawling bedroom with a king-sized bed, two duvets, and then I’d have my cake and eat it (and him) too.
It isn’t, however, a perfect world, and I do, in fact, have a double bed. (And a wall, and a door, and a couch.)
What I don’t have, though, are the insecurities that if my guy chooses to sleep on the couch that it somehow means he doesn’t want to be with me. I know it means he’s trying to shore up a little energy for the next round.
And of that I do approve. ‘Cos god knows he’s a-gonna need it, as am I.
Unfortunately, society tells us that couples need to be glued together at the hip. Remember when Linda McCartney died? They made such a big deal about Paul and Linda McCartney having never spent a night apart in all their years of marriage. Oh, swoon went the press corps. Aww, how romantic!
I’m not sure that’s anything I’ll ever aspire to. I see myself wanting to occasionally take a weekend away to myself, or having a night alone here or there. That’s just the way I’m built. I love intimacy. I LOVE IT. I love cuddling, kissing, fucking, making love, spooning, groping, teasing, taunting, whispering naughty things, spankin’, slappin’, laughing, feeding each other, smothering each other’s body… and all manner of other sinfully good mutual delights, but I love my time alone. How would I write, otherwise?
Well, I guess there’s always shipping him off to the couch at 4am, and spending a few minutes writing… Like now.
I guess the point with relationships isn’t about what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s typical. It’s about what’s working for you.
All I know is, I’m on the all-sex diet, and I still get to sleep alone, yet have some toy-time ‘round sun-up and for hours afterwards. It’s truly a beautiful thing. ‘Course, more than three hours’ sleep last night might be a good way to go. Next time. Snicker. Right, yeah, that’ll happen. Isn’t that what the next night is for?