An update. The fellow in my life is now officially title-less. We have emigrated from the land of fuck-buddies, traversed the more genteel county of gentleman caller/ladyfriend and wandered into uncharted territory. However, all the while we have kept a firm grasp on our booty call passports. It doesn't matter if we are planning to spend the weekend together or steal 75 minutes during a weekday lunch hour. We assume that sex will take up a sizable portion of the time spent together. (That old saying is true. When you assume, you get a piece of ass for you and me.)
He looked at me with a concerned expression the other day while I was talking about seeing a galpal, and asked abruptly, “You don't tell your friends how much sex you're having, right?”
“No, not really...I mean, they kind of know, they can tell I'm topped up, if you know what I mean. But I don't get into numbers or anything.”
“Good. We have a lot of sex. There's no point rubbing it in. They won't like you for it.”
I shrug. He may be right. “What about your friends? Do you tell them, the married guys?”
Here he laughs and shakes his head. Apparently I am now absurd. His friends might plot his downfall if they knew how many times he gets off in a week. I get even more. I don't know if it's sustainable, but also don't particularly care. We're going on three months and it has yet to exhaust itself, so onward Christian soldier!
He endears himself further to me later on, in bed. With great sincerity, he raises his head after a long conversation with my better half and sighs, “Wow, I love it that you let me go down on you for so long.”
At this moment, I am tempted to look away pensively, perhaps stifle a sob. Let a tear roll down my cheek. Murmur how I only “let him” because I really, really, really like him. However, I was a) worried I'd start laughing uncontrollably at “let him” and we still had more business to attend to and b) I couldn't spare the moisture.
Jesus, what kinds of sick twists had this poor man been with before, that had granted him this royal favour? And thank you, you dear repressed twats, for he is both overdue and grateful. Quite touching, really.
It's not all fun and games, however. I have breached etiquette. The other morning I was getting topped up prior to getting on with the day, and realized that I had a brazilian waxing booked later that morning. Shit.
Now, my aesthetician Audrey is a lovely gal. She is very down-to-earth, has a great sense of humour. She has confided in me some of the pitfalls in her line of work, including the cardinal sins of clients. Other than the obvious ones of for god's sake shower, and don't scream or have hysterics, she has also mentioned having sex prior to coming in. “I know,” she said, stoic and omniscient. “I just know.”
And now here I am, two hours prior. While it's just been a quick wake-up romp and nothing sploogy or lubey, there is still some...swelling. So home I go, and after a thorough bathe I am clutching an ice-pack against my new black and pink La Senza undies with bum ruffles that say “J'aime les garcons” in silver (thanks mum!) while feeding the dogs.
The ice seems to help, but in the future I shall practise more restraint. Vaginas approached for maintenance purposes should be clean, healthy and unpilfered—in other words, as innocuous as possible. My apologies, Audrey.
To his credit, when my fellow learned I'd been to Brazil that morning the first thing he said was, “Hey, you broke the rule!” When I explained about the ice pack, he asked “Seriously?” and smiled like a sphinx and said nothing more.
His initiation into my weird inner life was further aided by a few drinks together last night. Please note that I don't get drunk a lot, especially in public. I have rules around drinking, obvious ones like Don't drink and drive; and others more specific to myself like Don't drink with people you don't trust. Also too much alcohol affects my sleep and generally makes me feel crappalicious. While feeling deliciously crappy is interesting on occasion, it's not something that bears repetition.
Other than getting loaded with the family at Christmas, the last time I got smashdrunk was at a local Oktoberfest event. Where coincidentally, I had bumped into my current fellow whom I'd met briefly at a music festival in August. With a few drinks in me, I greeted him like a long-lost pal. He was soon convinced that we were going to leave together and have sex somewhere. I was speaking in unladylike tones, on salacious matters. However, it was not to be that night, as one of my rules is Don't drink and have first-time sex. And oh, my boyfriend (remember him?) was there. Anyway, I managed to keep it somewhat together that night, falling onto my back while dancing only once (witnessed, and of course admired, by both current and ex fellow). The point of this digression is that when I drink, I tend to not give a shit about appearances.
Last night I decided that I was going to get drunk. I'd been working flat out. I had not left the house in two days (I work from a home office). It was Robbie Burns Day. My fella was joining me for steaks and scotch. Simultaneously, life was good and I needed to blow off steam.
The evening started with a controlled release. Glass of red while cooking. Tumbler of scotch on the go when he arrived. Then I offer him a drink, and while listing the choices I hear myself exclaim “Hey, I've got a bottle of tequila in the freezer, we should do a shot!” I don't have shot glasses. He gets a mug. I get a ceramic egg-cup. Then more wine with dinner, and still working on my scotch, and the egg cup keeps magically re-filling.
Things get a little hazy. I remember purposely falling off the bed once in a fit of laughter. I do remember thinking I must not be that drunk as I was taking out my contacts, and I slurrily congratulated myself.
I do not remember falling off the bed several times, or exclaiming that we should tie me up!, or even why I got up in the middle of the night thinking the dogs were outside and inadvertently let them outside and then had to corral them back in. I do remember emerging from my walk-in closet buck-naked with a Christmas tree stand on my head, grinning foolishly at my own randomness. I do not remember what compelled me to do such a cool thing.
Luckily, he finds these things hilarious, and I suspect a little cute. Of course, he left early before I got up in Code 3 Crappalicious Mode. I looked like a theatrical mental patient, stumbling around the house wrapped in a blanket with one side of my hair stuck straight up, finding visual clues to my behaviour the previous night (Oh, there are my cowboy boots...what's the Christmas tree stand doing out...did I have a boiled egg last night, what's with the egg cup...).
My mind has moved at a glacial pace for most of the day. Recovery has been slow, and entailed plentiful, beefy leftovers and a surprise afternoon double-header. There's no hangover that red meat and sex can't fix. I think Robbie Burns said that. In homage to his 251st birthday, I leave you with a traditional Scottish toast.
I've drunk to your health in taverns,
I've drunk to your health in my home,
I've drunk to your health so damn many times,
That I've almost ruined my own!
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