Not All Gloom & Doom
Here lies the confession of a perfect day.
Strangely enough my pen (or my keys) seem to flow most when I'm morose. I don't know if this is a symptom of some personality trait or the basic human condition. I lean more towards the latter. The sheer number of songs about unrequited or lost love compared with the number of songs about actually being in love seem to support my supposition. Even now I'm stumbling a little as I type this out, although it's very possible this is due to a stranger complimenting my chicken-scratch.
That being said, yesterday was a good day. I'd like to tell you about it, more so to show that my happiness doesn't depend on some fantastical and impossible series of events than for posterity. I believe that before anything else I am a simple man.
After getting off work a little later than normal and only running into the very tail end of traffic in the Downtown Tunnel I arrived at my 13th floor residence to a cute and cuddly girlfriend and two excited pugs. The dogs were in their natural pugsuits and she (although showered) was in soft pajama pants and a t-shirt. After placing my bags down and cursing good-naturedly at my pets' displays of affection I found myself unexpectedly cuddling on our red hand-me-down couch, her warmth and general sleepy-time ambiance soothing the stress away from a day at the office.
I can't remember exactly what was being said, just generalities about the day, what was on the television, etc; the kind of talk where the tones are more important and easily recalled than the trivial sounds they ride on. Wrapped in each other's arms, the entire length of our bodies pressed together, faces pointed lazy towards one another, we lay in a mini-vacation for two.
The topic of sex came up (as it always does with me, I must confess to possess a broad streak of what others call "immature humor") and she didn't shoot down my subtle and half-hearted propositions, which, sadly, I've come to expect. In fact she moved her hips in two or three small playful thrusts and invited me to have at it right then and there.
I did not, dear reader, jump on the offer as you may suppose. As fiendish as I may appear at times, I am not that far gone. I have never been, even in the worst droughts when it seemed I would have accepted manual or oral release from an effeminate male or permission to ravage an uncaring and unmoving partner who's sole goal in the act was to shut me up. No, not even then. My partner must be into it before I get into her.
We chatted and joked more about nothing as my hands wandered the softest skin man or monster has ever known. Eventually one came to rest just below the blue elastic band of her pajama bottoms, on the soft plateau between navel and nethers I fondly refer to as her mound, even though for reasons lost on me she hates the word. Noticing no protestations I ventured lower still and pressed lightly with experimental fingertips upon that holy grail of the feminine sexual anatomy. The experiment yielded soft murmurs and closed eyes, and a noted lack of interest in the electronic entertainment. After repeat procedures gave similar results we were off to the bedroom.
Let me note quickly that I am not opposed to sex in places other than default locations. In fact, I relish such thoughts. However this particular couch has thick cushions that give too much under the sharp pressure points of knees and elbows and is not so wide that it allows for anything other than a few positions. I like to have my options open.
The sex was good. Nothing to write home to Penthouse about, but not all sex has to involve scars, whips, and bounced checks to be thoroughly enjoyable. I tried and failed to bring my lover to orgasm via my ever-attentive fingers as she was having a bought of over-sensitivity. However in the middle of our coupling my pelvis started to do what the pads of my fingers could not and with much grinding and tensed gripping of the mattress she reached that sweet release with me deep inside her. A feat not often achieved given that my Better Half is somewhat of a lazy lover and a lot of muscle goes into it.
Then came my turn. I should state that this is my long-practiced and preferred method of copulation: where my partner achieves such great heights first and then I follow after. I find it hard to really enjoy the one-sided pleasures a man can receive from a woman. I never know what to do with my hands or my face and it takes ages to complete task. And if I'm the only one reaching the finish line, well... That's just no fun at all. It's important to this writing for it to be known that great sex, in my humble opinion, requires both participants to be satisfactorily spent.
And that is indeed what happened, dear reader. At the risk of endorsing a method of birth control that is definitely not safe, sanitary, or sanctioned by any public service announcer, we rarely use condoms and she is not on The Pill. This has it's ups and downs. The upside is increased sensitivity on both our parts and, as I would never say in real life, an increased sensitivity of the soul as well. If I was a church going man, I'd attend the Church of Skin-to-Skin Contact. Call me a hippy if you must, but I believe there is something to be said for the natural way and far be it from me to introduce any kind of unnatural barrier into the act of most sacred and personal contact. How can a meeting of the souls occur with an encasing fortress dividing them?
That is not to say that I want children just yet and that I've simply been slipping the noose so far. Going back to the church bit, I am a devoted practitioner of the Pull & Pray school. This, along with a regular monthly visit from the specter of Maybe This Time comprises the down side of a prophylactic-free sex life. While I have consciously chosen this path I can't help but lament that it would be nice to rely on something other than my own manual labor at the final moments of every tryst. That being said, in my eight years of service I have a spotless record.
On this particular day we opted to use one of the half-dozen or so ultra-thin numbers lurking in my bedside dresser. Actually achieving orgasm while still sublimely enveloped within the fairer sex is something new to me. My first partner and I never used anything besides her medication and my self-control. It is a singular experience that at first seemed strange (eight years of training to overcome) but has since become one of my favorite things, as is the way my lover gasped and arched her back even though it was I who was lost inside his own head where sight and sound barely reached over the tactile roar of bliss.
Then it was brief relaxing cuddles, freshening up, putting the dogs to bed and out to dinner. We had both been craving Chili's veggie burgers (I'm vegetarian and the black bean burger is delicious to carnivores and herbivores alike) which we ordered along with fries, a chocolate shake for me, diet coke for her and some dip to go with the chips and salsa which adorns every table by default. Amidst lighthearted and enjoyable banter about the Internet, music, and movies we wolfed down our drinks and pre-food food before the actual burgers appeared, which we had to take home in squat white containers to be microwaved and finished off the following day.
Even though I am mostly a relapsed Buddhist these days, I still find that I live in the moment more often than not. To the correctly trained mind, this is a wonderful thing. Situations and circumstances come and go with the grace and peacefulness of white cotton-ball clouds against a blue sky. To the incorrectly trained mind, each ordeal is an eternity with no end in sight, be it pleasant or ghastly. To my reckless brain this little piece of forever was heaven.
Yours Long-Windedly,
David
Strangely enough my pen (or my keys) seem to flow most when I'm morose. I don't know if this is a symptom of some personality trait or the basic human condition. I lean more towards the latter. The sheer number of songs about unrequited or lost love compared with the number of songs about actually being in love seem to support my supposition. Even now I'm stumbling a little as I type this out, although it's very possible this is due to a stranger complimenting my chicken-scratch.
That being said, yesterday was a good day. I'd like to tell you about it, more so to show that my happiness doesn't depend on some fantastical and impossible series of events than for posterity. I believe that before anything else I am a simple man.
After getting off work a little later than normal and only running into the very tail end of traffic in the Downtown Tunnel I arrived at my 13th floor residence to a cute and cuddly girlfriend and two excited pugs. The dogs were in their natural pugsuits and she (although showered) was in soft pajama pants and a t-shirt. After placing my bags down and cursing good-naturedly at my pets' displays of affection I found myself unexpectedly cuddling on our red hand-me-down couch, her warmth and general sleepy-time ambiance soothing the stress away from a day at the office.
I can't remember exactly what was being said, just generalities about the day, what was on the television, etc; the kind of talk where the tones are more important and easily recalled than the trivial sounds they ride on. Wrapped in each other's arms, the entire length of our bodies pressed together, faces pointed lazy towards one another, we lay in a mini-vacation for two.
The topic of sex came up (as it always does with me, I must confess to possess a broad streak of what others call "immature humor") and she didn't shoot down my subtle and half-hearted propositions, which, sadly, I've come to expect. In fact she moved her hips in two or three small playful thrusts and invited me to have at it right then and there.
I did not, dear reader, jump on the offer as you may suppose. As fiendish as I may appear at times, I am not that far gone. I have never been, even in the worst droughts when it seemed I would have accepted manual or oral release from an effeminate male or permission to ravage an uncaring and unmoving partner who's sole goal in the act was to shut me up. No, not even then. My partner must be into it before I get into her.
We chatted and joked more about nothing as my hands wandered the softest skin man or monster has ever known. Eventually one came to rest just below the blue elastic band of her pajama bottoms, on the soft plateau between navel and nethers I fondly refer to as her mound, even though for reasons lost on me she hates the word. Noticing no protestations I ventured lower still and pressed lightly with experimental fingertips upon that holy grail of the feminine sexual anatomy. The experiment yielded soft murmurs and closed eyes, and a noted lack of interest in the electronic entertainment. After repeat procedures gave similar results we were off to the bedroom.
Let me note quickly that I am not opposed to sex in places other than default locations. In fact, I relish such thoughts. However this particular couch has thick cushions that give too much under the sharp pressure points of knees and elbows and is not so wide that it allows for anything other than a few positions. I like to have my options open.
The sex was good. Nothing to write home to Penthouse about, but not all sex has to involve scars, whips, and bounced checks to be thoroughly enjoyable. I tried and failed to bring my lover to orgasm via my ever-attentive fingers as she was having a bought of over-sensitivity. However in the middle of our coupling my pelvis started to do what the pads of my fingers could not and with much grinding and tensed gripping of the mattress she reached that sweet release with me deep inside her. A feat not often achieved given that my Better Half is somewhat of a lazy lover and a lot of muscle goes into it.
Then came my turn. I should state that this is my long-practiced and preferred method of copulation: where my partner achieves such great heights first and then I follow after. I find it hard to really enjoy the one-sided pleasures a man can receive from a woman. I never know what to do with my hands or my face and it takes ages to complete task. And if I'm the only one reaching the finish line, well... That's just no fun at all. It's important to this writing for it to be known that great sex, in my humble opinion, requires both participants to be satisfactorily spent.
And that is indeed what happened, dear reader. At the risk of endorsing a method of birth control that is definitely not safe, sanitary, or sanctioned by any public service announcer, we rarely use condoms and she is not on The Pill. This has it's ups and downs. The upside is increased sensitivity on both our parts and, as I would never say in real life, an increased sensitivity of the soul as well. If I was a church going man, I'd attend the Church of Skin-to-Skin Contact. Call me a hippy if you must, but I believe there is something to be said for the natural way and far be it from me to introduce any kind of unnatural barrier into the act of most sacred and personal contact. How can a meeting of the souls occur with an encasing fortress dividing them?
That is not to say that I want children just yet and that I've simply been slipping the noose so far. Going back to the church bit, I am a devoted practitioner of the Pull & Pray school. This, along with a regular monthly visit from the specter of Maybe This Time comprises the down side of a prophylactic-free sex life. While I have consciously chosen this path I can't help but lament that it would be nice to rely on something other than my own manual labor at the final moments of every tryst. That being said, in my eight years of service I have a spotless record.
On this particular day we opted to use one of the half-dozen or so ultra-thin numbers lurking in my bedside dresser. Actually achieving orgasm while still sublimely enveloped within the fairer sex is something new to me. My first partner and I never used anything besides her medication and my self-control. It is a singular experience that at first seemed strange (eight years of training to overcome) but has since become one of my favorite things, as is the way my lover gasped and arched her back even though it was I who was lost inside his own head where sight and sound barely reached over the tactile roar of bliss.
Then it was brief relaxing cuddles, freshening up, putting the dogs to bed and out to dinner. We had both been craving Chili's veggie burgers (I'm vegetarian and the black bean burger is delicious to carnivores and herbivores alike) which we ordered along with fries, a chocolate shake for me, diet coke for her and some dip to go with the chips and salsa which adorns every table by default. Amidst lighthearted and enjoyable banter about the Internet, music, and movies we wolfed down our drinks and pre-food food before the actual burgers appeared, which we had to take home in squat white containers to be microwaved and finished off the following day.
Even though I am mostly a relapsed Buddhist these days, I still find that I live in the moment more often than not. To the correctly trained mind, this is a wonderful thing. Situations and circumstances come and go with the grace and peacefulness of white cotton-ball clouds against a blue sky. To the incorrectly trained mind, each ordeal is an eternity with no end in sight, be it pleasant or ghastly. To my reckless brain this little piece of forever was heaven.
Yours Long-Windedly,
David
