It’s been quite a while since I wrote anything even remotely story-like, even longer since I’ve engaged my pornographic mode of essay composition. I think it is interesting how the image can so capture the mind (usually male minds) and become the thousand words that do the work. I often enjoy writing, especially when I don’t have to do it for money or school, so I am a bit surprised at myself that I haven’t found the impetus to churn out a useable batch of words for this blog. I’m forcing myself this time. Which can be just the ticket when it comes to VSK.
I’d bet that while the community of people who read this blog and blogs like this are not exactly average, most of the men who live in this world small or large have experienced the societal affliction of masculinus initiativous, better known as begging. No matter how progressive our partners may be and no matter how many toilets we may clean, I would propose that every man has had a relationship or at least moments in his relationship where he had to initiate nearly every sexual congress and romantic interlude. Now if this sounds like complaining, it is. Well sorta, but as a fellow who shares with his partner a vast array of stimulating “extras” I find that complaining itself is a no-no if wild sex is the goal. So officially this is not complaining. This is observing.
VSK is a very forgiving creature and even in those moments when the words “Dutch Oven” escape my lips she finds a way to put up with my ranting observations and off-beat high-jinx. But our relationship is not so different from vanilla America’s officially monogamous and missionary ideals in that we battle for turf and validation in our 20 plus year marriage. As we have matured the sublime nature of our jockeying for position has become nuanced and humored. Raise my voice with just a decibel or two of extraneous volume or add too much aggressive timbre and . . . well there is always tomorrow. And regardless of my boorish and oafish moments there are the real and ubiquitous distractions of modern femininity like “have the kids done their homework?” and “what’s for dinner?” As if my buying yet another carne asada burrito and chicken quesadilla wasn’t enough of a contribution to the energy we can then devote to the fucking. Regardless I am going to have to ask for the boning. As most men do, I chauvinistically assert.
Seeing these words on the page I guess I am just a pig and I should not only cook dinner, do the dishes and give a foot massage before I can hope that she’ll don one of those semi-expensive garments we just got in the last two posts and beg me to bring it too her big time. She’s a peach and the fact that nearly 27 years into this gig (most of it married and under the same roof) she still countenances being nailed 2-7 times a week is surely enough. Ah but to dream of those sweet moments when she comes on to me when I am actually ready to have sex and not just standing in the parking lot of the auto body shop thinking about how much fucking money and time I am pissing away because of my daughter’s faulty application of breaking force. Hey, I need to be romanced too! Hopefully it’ll be somewhere where it is acceptable to pull my pants off without fear of arrest.
I love you honey. . .