The trouble with being a fast-food nation is that it’s become the norm to want what you want the way you want it, when you want it.
We’re led to believe that every single day is so important — which is why we need the iPhone, the laptop, the netbook, the fast car, the microwave — that to waste a single moment or wait a single day is tantamount to a national disaster.
And it’s easy to fall into the expectation that because there’s never going to be another today that tomorrow just won’t do, especially when it comes to relationships.
We often don’t have a lot of patience anymore, particularly in love. Me, I’ve never really had it. Continue reading →
Tonight’s a family dinner, my dad’s 64, and I think his health is beginning to fail. I wonder sometimes how long he’ll be around, and being the monster-sized man that he is, coupled with diabetes and heart conditions, it’s anybody’s guess.
The Guy was supposed to join us for dinner – something he claims he really wanted to do. I believe him, but I say “claim” because I can’t fathom why he’d be looking forwards to meeting my folks. I think most guys run from that, but since he’s the one who started it by inviting me to meet his father (didn’t happen), I figured I’d invite him over. Unfortunately, his leg’s being a bitch today (surgery/broken leg) and with his sick days rapidly vanishing on him, and 11 months left in his calendar year, playing it safe at the start of the week is the wiser way to go. I can’t fault that, and even support his choice.
Besides, I’d rather him save his energy for me alone. I doubt my dad’s expiration date looms that closely, but I’ll be happy to have them meet sooner than later. It’s strange having a guy around who flies in the face of the stereotypes for a change.
I’m still the one being a tad more cautious about the things I say, et cetera, but I’ve been thinking of late about the beginnings of relationships, such as when one embarks on different “firsts,” like this “come meet the folks” invite extended by each of us in the recent past.
For example, the inevitable Toothbrush Debacle. When is it the right time to bring a toothbrush and leave it at your new partner’s? Is there a good time? Is it the first time you’re formally invited for the night? I don’t have to worry about that, since the Guy bought me a toothbrush for his place about two or three weeks ago, and deposited his own here rather unceremoniously a couple weeks back. (I’ve been avoiding opening the brush he bought for me, to be honest, as if it was the Sign of Serious Things or something. I’m still a tad apprehensive that way, but I’m thinking about forcing myself to crack that bad boy open the Next Time I’m Over.)
Then, testing for STDs, such as AIDS. How do you approach the subject of getting tested for your partner, especially if neither of you are the Lifestyler types who dismiss testing with ease, given it’s part of your routine? Again, the Guy brought it up first. “I think we should get tested,” was about the gist of his simple-but-good approach. Ironically, he was planning on going for a full work-up after work on the day he busted his leg. Thus, testing’s been delayed. I’ve just made myself a post-it note to get my ass in and take care of my end of things. Not like I have a broken leg for an excuse/reason.
I think there’s no delicate way to say, “Hey, you better get tested.” I think, if you’re looking at a commitment, the incentive of condomless sex is about as good an incentive as anyone needs. Condoms = Mood killers, but necessary evils. With a commitment, not so necessary anymore – provided you’re both toting a clean bill of health and other forms of birth control are in use. I think it comes down to taking a moment after sex or at some other point and simply saying, “What are your thoughts on getting tested for STDs? I know I’d prefer it if we’d both go ahead and do that, and I’m wondering if you think now’s a good time to go ahead and take that action?” Or, the simple-but-good Guy approach worked well for us.
Another issue is that of unwanted pregnancy. If you’re getting into that committed, yet condomless point of a relationship, I think it’s just pragmatic to discuss what a course of action would be if you suddenly were accidentally to become pregnant or get her pregnant. An opportunity arose for me to make my sentiments known (I would abort, with absolute certainty – I have no interest in having children at all, and that’s probably something worth writing about on its own) and I did so. Now he knows where I stand, and he’s relieved, since he’s of the same non-childbearing state of mind. Obviously, guys should let the chick state her stance first. If you force the issue with “I think an abortion would be appropriate,” you may never hear her true feelings on the matter – feelings which might well be contrary to your own, and this is not a subject to dismiss lightly.
It’s awkward, these beginning things. Coming to conclusions on each of the above certainly makes for getting on page a little quicker. There are some conversations that just need to happen. There’s no right way to go, unfortunately. The Guy buying us both toothbrushes might have fallen flat with another girl. Me, I thought it almost seemed like a statement of intent, and I sort of liked the way he took charge and simply made that decision. Another woman might not feel so warmly about it. Ditto with him inviting me to meet his father within about two weeks of the start of our relationship – something that actually did freak me out a tad, to be honest.
Like sex, like taxes, like navigating a new furniture layout after dark, it’s learning by bump-in-the-night, and there’s no simple way. What works once for you will likely fall completely apart the next time. Humans are an unpredictable beast, and you takes your chances every single time. You need to use your instinct, and you need to keep all these situations light by not making a big deal of them. Just simple, matter-of-fact comments and actions go a long ways to taking the edge off of what can be a pretty intense moment (yes, even toothbrushes can be intense).
I still get my moments of total apprehension and weirdness, but I keep them at bay by keeping conversations open with the Guy. He volunteers much in the way of feelings and communication, and I reciprocate both in person and through this blog. Together, we’re making it through the minefield of discovery, and the future looks interesting, if even a tad promising.
Nice, full lips: I can’t get enough of them. I bite, nibble, and suck them with little regard for consequences. I acquiesce to an invading tongue like a defenseless village against raiders. Enter at will, I silently command, unwilling to put up a fight, but ready to engage regardless.
I nibble, bite, lick, and suck my way down his torso, enjoying it as much or more than he does. It’s my land, my territory, and intimate knowledge is my only goal. There’s no part of the body safe from my probing, and I’m an explorer with abandon, navigating first with my hands, then staking my claim with my lips. A nibble, a bite, a suck… all aphrodisiacs for yet another.
I’m a sexually peaking 32-year-old woman who’s just been hit with her first full dose of spring fever. I need sex, and I want it now.
Tonight I hung out with my first sex blogger for some cool conversation, some Guinness, a stroll, and a bus ride. A nice night. I noticed then as we wandered to the waterfront that it was warmer than I’d have expected. Seasonal. Nice. A little damp, a little chilly, but there it was. Warmer than it oughta be, fresher than dawn on a mountain. A spring night. The first real one.
We hit the bus, he got off at his stop for the hotel, and I carried on my merry way. Two folks quickly sat down opposite me, in a portion of the bus where the aisle expanse is at its narrowest. They were inches from my knees and the sexual energy was just incredible. Wow. You could tell they were on the verge, and they’ve been lodged on that precipice for some time. They’ve clearly known each other for a little, and they’ve connected on a different level. Now, it’s averted gazes, bashful smiles, and too much self-touching.
(You know what I mean, you smooth out your jeans, adjust a pocket, straighten your sleeve – but it’s really just nervous tension, and you know it. These two were popping.)
She was this geeky-chic alt-edge white girlie with these naughty librarian specs, a beret, tapered velvet pants that snaked down her mile-high legs. She used to be a redhead, partially dyed black. In her lap, a wood-mounted freshly sculpted clay statuette (yet to be baked) of a nubile goddess. Her smile was that of a sexy affected intellectual.
Hell, I wanted her.
He was this sexy alternative Middle Eastern guy with chiseled features, smoky eyes, this birthmark on his forehead that looked like a smudge of ash, and this oh-so-perfect little soulpatch (mm) under his tender full lips. His jeans were loose in all the right places, but snug in the better ones. He had a nervous twitch in his left leg and kept bouncing his knee an inch or two up in a fidgety manner that said he really didn’t want to be looking at the floor as she spoke about whatever it was that was moving her then, but would rather be on the floor on top of her.
Hell, I wanted him.
Yet there was this great connection on the level of friends. These shy recognitions exchanged in glances, furtive moments of silence and awkward chuckles. So fucking sexy, so hot.
They each went home alone, to my surprise. He disembarked at my stop, and I hung back to watch those sweet half-moon cheeks swaggering up the drag. “Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go.”
And then I realized it. I’m just full of lust, morning, noon, and night these days. I find when I’m able to shut it off for a few hours for work or platonic socializing or whatever, whammo. Girl’s back to raging. God damned peaking.
The sexual peak is the age at which your frequency of sexual arousal reaches an all-time high. It has nothing to do with skill or frequency of being laid. It’s hormones ripening. Men, 16-18, women, 32-35. I’m 32. Wham. I’m on, 24-7. Bulges in jeans on the street are targeted in my sights from a two-block distance. I watch them approach. The shifting side-to-side. I watch asses, always. Shoulders, nice broad and strong ones. I feel dysfunctional. I’m a voyeur every waking moment. Raging. Sigh.
But it was also at that moment that it hit me: It’s spring.
I began to pass nearly sprung apple blossoms, exposed fluffy cherry blossoms. I smelled honeysuckle. I walked my 10 blocks home with my suede jacket dangling open and only my embroidered cotton shirt protecting me. Blissful. Stars glimmering overhead. That freshness that tells you winter’s on the outs. I breathed deeply. Stopped to stare at the stars, smell the air. Shuffled my feet in a lazy amble on home, savouring the walk as long as I could. I even paused to hang in the school playground. Leaning back on the swing, checking the stars.
God, I love the laziness of spring. The easy pace, the affable air. Mm. A very, very happy Steff.
And now, I want sex even more. Actually, no, you know what I want tonight? Intimacy.
The casual heat of just knowing someone well enough to toy endlessly with their bits and pieces as you lie stretched out, soaking in a classic movie or an intelligent foreign flick, sipping wine, candles flickering, naked, skin-on-skin, a blanket draped loosely over you both, a breast hanging out, toes protruding, legs interlocked, occasionally emitting single lines of commentary to each other, getting only a nibble or a bite in response. Just an easy night in.
That’s what I want. That says spring to me. Spring is seasonal foreplay. It’s suggestive of the heat to come. A delicate tease meant to stoke you and ready you for all to come. It’s so fitting, doing prolonged tease and toy sessions, just getting intimate with all they have to offer. Yep. Spring.
Then there’s outdoor sex, the sport of the season… fucking on the grass near the beach, but that’s another story for another time. Yes, do remind me to tackle the subject of public sex sometime. Ahh, how do I love it. Let me count the ways. Oh, my. Yes, that is also what this season says to me. “Get out and play.” Just dew it, baby.
So, my wish to you all: A fine and fair spring, with plenty of fun fucking and frolicking of all kinds. God knows I’ve got one on order. Let’s hope the season delivers.