I hate Valentine’s day. Always have. I have this cool Valentine’s day card from my nephew, though, from three or four years ago. It’s got all the X-Men on it and it says “You’re X-citing!” It’s a prized possession and is on my fridge, along with my magnetic poetry heroin poem I wrote. Yeah, a ball of sunshine, that’s me.
Aside from that, I hate the day. Always hated it. Some personal shit happened with death and such around the day a few years back, and then there’s the whole spurned in love dealie and all. You’d think I’d be suckered into petty bitterness by way of those factors alone. But you know what? You’d be wrong.
See, what really pisses me off is this mandated romance thing. I’m hugely romantic. When you’re involved, isn’t it kind of in your interest to keep yourselves feeling confident and connected? Stay romantic. Do little things to keep it all alive. Buy small gifts – a favourite cigar, a tasters’ bottle of her favourite liqueur – and keep generosity cycling. Leave little dirty notes or tender professions of love lying around.
Have you done that? Take some nice paper – it has to be nice paper so that it stands out. Plain paper will get mixed up with pocket crap and get tossed. Some vibrant heavy bond paper will get noticed. Write quick little dirty notes. Keep it to, oh, 17 words or less.
“I want to devour you.”
“I’ve been very, very naughty. You must discipline me immediately.”
“You. Me. Long, long night. Anything you desire.”
Hide them everywhere. Pocket of favourite jeans. In with their credit card. In their business card holder. Replace their bookmark with one. (Which is great if you know they’re going to read near you at bedtime.) Inside the toe of a shoe, balled up.
Thing is, you do it all at once. A blitzkrieg of notes. It’ll take a couple weeks for them all to get found if you’re stealthy enough about it. It’s titillating, it’s fun, it’s a surprise for both of you, ‘cos hey, maybe you’ll be off your guard enough by the time it’s found. Quel fun.
But you have to stay romantic and passionate. It’s such a wonderful addition to your quality of life. Good food, sex, conversation, low maintenance nights in. What’s not to love?
Some people don’t like sex. Some people have some hormonal asexuality thing. Whatever. Good on them. They don’t want to fuck? Great, don’t. But don’t make like sex is some kind of fucking chore you’re obligated to do. The usual perception of a relationship is that there be a physical and emotional connection. That there’ll be sex. It’s not whack to expect you’re going to get laid. Should come with the territory. If you’re not on page, you’re the no sex type, you should be obligated to fess up off the top, or something.
But I do digress. I don’t think people should have sex on Valentine’s because it’s Valentine’s. Nope. I think you should have sex because you can. And because it’s good exercise.
Here’s the deal. I’m lazy. Very. When I get active, I go, go, go. I can cycle pretty long distances and tend to be strong. I’m just lazy. Sedentary. Like silt or barnacles; perfectly content to just lie there.
Yet I want to be active. See, it so happens I’m both a dominant yet submissive woman. And when it comes to gravity, I’m totally submissive.
But I like sex. I’m strong. And I have endurance. Plus, I yield well to gravity and all things horizontal. Therefore, I’m wanting to pass on the gym membership in favour of sex. All the time. I need me an Energizer Bunny. Fuck our way to buff. There’s a gameplan a girl can get behind. Well, this girl.
Yet I’m not wild about Valentine’s Day. I dunno. Kinda a fuck Hallmark moment, don’t you thing? Yes, I love you, now can I stop buying you these fucking cards? Jesus Christ.
The fuckin’ coffee shop down the street was doing pink whipped cream on their mochas. Great, can we have some friggin’ sparkles with that, Bubbles? Gosh, thanks! That’s not romantic. It’s goddamned puffery! Romance should be so much more rich, fun, and rewarding than that. And who needs pink whipped cream?! We’re in it for the taste, not the colour, you fools. (It’s like those twats who tint their Guinness green. Guinness! What the fuck are you thinking! No self-respecting Irishman would tint god’s own nectar with food colouring. Fucking travesty, that!)
Why, why, why do we have to be party to a society that tends to believe romance can be ignored for 11.5 months of the year, yet we can play bloody catch-up on one damned day? What’s so bad about thinking that sex deserves to be an important weekly, if not daily, activity?
The Surgeon General recommends you get 30 minutes of exercise a day. One half of all working people claim to suffer back pain at least once a year. Sex is good for the back, particularly the lower bit. If you do it right, you should take 30 minutes. There’s 150 calories burned off (including 10 minutes foreplay and 20 minutes of sex) and you haven’t even left the bed. I’m not the first to think of the all-sex diet, but dammit, I wanna be a devotee! I wanna get me on a program!
Yet still I hate Valentine’s. 24 hours and a lot of Bauer-esque dekeing and diving, and I should make it through the day unscathed. I might crumple thought and buy one of those Starbucks “for Valentine’s” cupcakes. Jesus. Yum. But I’m in it for the chocolate, not the sap. None the less, I love you all, my smutty little Valentines. Have a good one.
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Want more of me? This was last year’s Valentine’s posting. (Says the 15th, but it was written on the 14th. Pfft.)