Squirting
is better when your man is shoving his fingers inside of you while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Squirting is better when he lifts cupped hands from between your legs and splashes your stomach with the evidence of his work. Squirting is better when you have daily maid service to change the soaking sheets. Isn’t it all better when he turns to you after you exclaim “I never thought I could do that with you” and he calmly says, “my darling, I knew you would.” He sees this as some sort of evolution in our sexual behavior. As if each new practice added to our repertoire means we are closer to a divine sexuality.
We are going home for Christmas. That is, I’m going to my parents on the east coast, he’s going back to his family on the west coast. I am reluctant to leave this place; it has become my home. He, of course, has children and a Christmas tree and a wife to return to. Breakfast dishes to wash over there, and drycleaning to pick up over there, and a daily routine, over there. Me, I’ll be wandering around my parent’s house aimlessly, wishing I could skip it all and stay in this bed, behind me, where he sleeps, not-so-quietly after a night of red wine and vodka and the sweet, embarrassing truths that come out when one is not-just-slightly drunk.
Eating too much: pate en terrine
Drinking too much: gluehwein
Reading too much: Colette
Fucking too much: from behind, with one hand pushing down on my lower back, the other, spreading me open to watch the penetration
Should I take my vibrator with me?
Should you take the vibrator? Only if you are sure it is quiet enough that no one will hear you. Just imagine that conversation around the breakfast table.
"Dear, I heard some buzzing last night, is everything okay?"
"Yes, mom, it was just my cell phone"
Yeah, that excuse only works once or twice, lol, and not to well if the buzzinf lasts an hour or more.
Sweet