Moving forward, because, well, what other choice does one have?
One gets grumpy when one is promised oral sex and then one's partner suddenly feels too tired or too busy with edits or too wrapped up in cleaning one's disaster of an apartment. One tries not to act like a guy about it (heeheehee), but one is kind of a guy about not getting one's due diligence down the delta. So one is surly.
AND. One actively opts not to remind one's husband that as an extra special reward for tribute paid downtown, that he was going to get to frolic in all three locales, even the exotic and forbidden.
If he's too tired for oral, well then, he must be too tired for anal. One pities a man who is so, so, very tired :( Although one is not ignorant and one knows that had the back door been mentioned that suddenly the man would have marshalled his well of reserves and marched to the mountain, one does not always feel like bribing one's lover to eat out.
So dinner, desert and all of that was summarily skipped. And one is on the irritable side, but one will get over it. One wasn't precisely starved for love or anything, having been fingered and fucked into a stupefying oblivion the morning before at around 4am or so (apologies to the neighbors...wait, nope.lolz.).
One wonders why it seems like the more sex one gets the more one wants it? One has noted that it isn't like quecnhing one's thirst with water, but more like scratching at poison ivy...it feels so good, but it is never enough, and it is a maddening sensation that must, must, must be satisfied again and again and again. And only if you smother it and leave it the fuck alone does it finally abate and recede and eventually cease its incessant call.
One woke up this morning in the middle of a lurid sex fantasy and literally growled in frustration because one's partner was slumbering like a bear and not actually fucking her forty ways from sunday, as he had been in said dream. One resented her husband, in that moment, for being human and not a fantasy and one feels slightly guilty about that. But note that one didn't bother taking matters into her own hands, or mouth, to change her circumstances, but rather decided to pout, to get up and pee (a pressing imperative, I assure you), and then put clothes on and prattle on about frustration into this adorable little netbook.
One is aware that if one had really wanted teh secks, one could have simply taken advantage of one's husband by manually stimulating his half-slumbering form until his equipment was primed, and then taken what one wanted\needed\desired\craved. One does this often, and one has this done to her on the regular. The advantages of marriage\long term relationships is that this practice is not considered dubious or reprehensible, but welcome and permitted! One wonders who wouldn't enjoy waking to some earnest oral stimulation or to some loving caresses...of the genitals... One posits that such a one is probably too uptight to enjoy a proper bout of fucking anyhow, and all the sex in the world is wasted on them. Or maybe, one supposes, they have some ailment that would preclude them from enjoying half-awake funtimez that would otherwise be most welcomed and passively allowed.
In conclusion! One awoke, already in a mood because one had been forced to fall asleep all wound-up and un-licked, and un-plundered in any and all regions, so upon waking and realizing that a vigorous fuck was also not in the cards, summarily pouted and grumbled and got the fuck out of bed in a state of dudgeon. Not high dudgeon, more like passive-agressively low dudgeon, if that is possible.
One is working through it, as we speak, and is getting ready to focus on the day ahead.
On the agenda:
~Playdate with Sister-in-law, and sister-in-spirit, and all their fabulous offspring!
This promises to be most fun!
~Work.
Today is a cook-out day! Which actually means the food is cooked outside but we must stay in the cafeteria and wait with grumpy, impatient elementary school campers whilst inept and surly middle schoolers screw up our table's order and do so with an attitude that suggests that they are better than camp cookouts and don't give a flying fuck if you get delivered a non-kosher hot dog or a non-vegetarian burger, and oops they forgot about the orange soada, will dr. pepper do instead because now they are all out of orange soda. And then the scavengers will beg and plead and needle for seconds, but we aren't allowed to give them seconds, until we are allowed and then they become ravenous, greedy little monsters fighting like jackals over half-burgers and dogs, and are there more chips too? please? pleeeeeeease?
~After dinner, a trip to Market Basket for vittles and supplies!
My hope is that after the cookout I will be MORE tolerant of the bucket, instead of what is more likely: that I will be on my last nerve, irritated beyond measure, and likely to snap over the most trivial inconvenience or percieved slight and haul off an punch a geriatric right in the powder blue curls for looking at me crosseyed or pulling her carriage out in front without an 'excuse me'.
~Home. To put away groceries, unwind, and prepare for my middle school interview. And, probably, for my husband to declare that now he is willing and able, but find me exhausted and unavailable.
Ta-Dah!
One gets grumpy when one is promised oral sex and then one's partner suddenly feels too tired or too busy with edits or too wrapped up in cleaning one's disaster of an apartment. One tries not to act like a guy about it (heeheehee), but one is kind of a guy about not getting one's due diligence down the delta. So one is surly.
AND. One actively opts not to remind one's husband that as an extra special reward for tribute paid downtown, that he was going to get to frolic in all three locales, even the exotic and forbidden.
If he's too tired for oral, well then, he must be too tired for anal. One pities a man who is so, so, very tired :( Although one is not ignorant and one knows that had the back door been mentioned that suddenly the man would have marshalled his well of reserves and marched to the mountain, one does not always feel like bribing one's lover to eat out.
So dinner, desert and all of that was summarily skipped. And one is on the irritable side, but one will get over it. One wasn't precisely starved for love or anything, having been fingered and fucked into a stupefying oblivion the morning before at around 4am or so (apologies to the neighbors...wait, nope.lolz.).
One wonders why it seems like the more sex one gets the more one wants it? One has noted that it isn't like quecnhing one's thirst with water, but more like scratching at poison ivy...it feels so good, but it is never enough, and it is a maddening sensation that must, must, must be satisfied again and again and again. And only if you smother it and leave it the fuck alone does it finally abate and recede and eventually cease its incessant call.
One woke up this morning in the middle of a lurid sex fantasy and literally growled in frustration because one's partner was slumbering like a bear and not actually fucking her forty ways from sunday, as he had been in said dream. One resented her husband, in that moment, for being human and not a fantasy and one feels slightly guilty about that. But note that one didn't bother taking matters into her own hands, or mouth, to change her circumstances, but rather decided to pout, to get up and pee (a pressing imperative, I assure you), and then put clothes on and prattle on about frustration into this adorable little netbook.
One is aware that if one had really wanted teh secks, one could have simply taken advantage of one's husband by manually stimulating his half-slumbering form until his equipment was primed, and then taken what one wanted\needed\desired\craved. One does this often, and one has this done to her on the regular. The advantages of marriage\long term relationships is that this practice is not considered dubious or reprehensible, but welcome and permitted! One wonders who wouldn't enjoy waking to some earnest oral stimulation or to some loving caresses...of the genitals... One posits that such a one is probably too uptight to enjoy a proper bout of fucking anyhow, and all the sex in the world is wasted on them. Or maybe, one supposes, they have some ailment that would preclude them from enjoying half-awake funtimez that would otherwise be most welcomed and passively allowed.
In conclusion! One awoke, already in a mood because one had been forced to fall asleep all wound-up and un-licked, and un-plundered in any and all regions, so upon waking and realizing that a vigorous fuck was also not in the cards, summarily pouted and grumbled and got the fuck out of bed in a state of dudgeon. Not high dudgeon, more like passive-agressively low dudgeon, if that is possible.
One is working through it, as we speak, and is getting ready to focus on the day ahead.
On the agenda:
~Playdate with Sister-in-law, and sister-in-spirit, and all their fabulous offspring!
This promises to be most fun!
~Work.
Today is a cook-out day! Which actually means the food is cooked outside but we must stay in the cafeteria and wait with grumpy, impatient elementary school campers whilst inept and surly middle schoolers screw up our table's order and do so with an attitude that suggests that they are better than camp cookouts and don't give a flying fuck if you get delivered a non-kosher hot dog or a non-vegetarian burger, and oops they forgot about the orange soada, will dr. pepper do instead because now they are all out of orange soda. And then the scavengers will beg and plead and needle for seconds, but we aren't allowed to give them seconds, until we are allowed and then they become ravenous, greedy little monsters fighting like jackals over half-burgers and dogs, and are there more chips too? please? pleeeeeeease?
~After dinner, a trip to Market Basket for vittles and supplies!
My hope is that after the cookout I will be MORE tolerant of the bucket, instead of what is more likely: that I will be on my last nerve, irritated beyond measure, and likely to snap over the most trivial inconvenience or percieved slight and haul off an punch a geriatric right in the powder blue curls for looking at me crosseyed or pulling her carriage out in front without an 'excuse me'.
~Home. To put away groceries, unwind, and prepare for my middle school interview. And, probably, for my husband to declare that now he is willing and able, but find me exhausted and unavailable.
Ta-Dah!
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