01-21-04 - 9:05 a.m.
It's funny, one of the things that has been bugging me the most is I want sex more than him. Last night before poet's group he was playing with my breasts, I was leaning back and humming ecstatically, he was adjusting his pants. He acted like he was about to unbuckle them, then said, "No, we only have twenty minutes. I better call Fish for directions." He picked up the phone and I called out, "Tell him you'll be late! Tell him you'll be late!" Of course, he didn't. And when we stumbled into the apartment kinda tired, kinda tipsy three hours later, and I dragged him over to the couch he insisted he had to turn on the light and "check on things", which means be neurotic and make sure there were no burglars or fires, keep your eyes peeled for spiders or wildebeests, wash your hands for no reason, etc. By the time I got to him that night, around midnight or later, we had to stop midway out of exhaustion.
My complaints about our lack of a more consistent sex life are approaching sexual harassment. We're not having sex every day, and once a day is barely enough for me. My intimate parts are aching. The feel of the plastic, battery-powered shaft is becoming too familiar to be as arousing. I get set off so easily...
If you, an anonymous reader, were right here and I knew I could, I would probably whisk you off to an empty classroom and engage you in a messy sixty-nine. Or I would rub against you through my jeans.I would beg you. Slap my ass when I think you're going to stroke me. Stroke me when I think you're going to slap my ass. Push me into position. Let me push you into position and rip off your clothes. Yeah, I'm really dirty. Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to be. Really.
