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Refractory punctuation

Most paper plates are not dishwasher safe.

I know this without having to put paper plates in the dishwasher to test it. It satisfies my sensibilities to take that assumption as fact without having to actually see it with my own eyes. Yet if someone were to ask me if I was absolutely sure, I'd have to hesitate because I haven't actually done it, nor have I ever seen anything which espouses to test the durability of paper plates in a dishwasher.

I just take it on faith.

This could go off into a rant about religion and morality and existence, but I've already done enough of that as of late, and I'm more preoccupied with love and lust and matters of the heart and groin.


I recently had a friend down to visit for a weekend. A very attractive female friend of the amazingly sexy persuasion. And it was a good weekend. Nothing untoward happened, though the possibility was either there or I completely misread everything (and I don't think I'm that far gone).

Several of my friends have now asked me if there was any hanky-panky that happened that weekend. Enough that I wonder if they were taking bets. Apparently the odds were 50-50.

The flip of a coin.

The urge to provide her with vast amounts of sensual pleasure was almost overwhelming. She would have enjoyed it. And I would have enjoyed it. But there would have been the next morning, and the chance of regret and stickiness. And I'd rather have her as a close friend than a one night stand.

Then there's Barb. Talking about whether we need some sort of a finalization ceremony, some sort of a ritualistic event to mark the psychological end of the relationship. If we don't do it, there's always this thin thread of hope that we could "work things out" (as long as I could change my mind about several things).

I have to wonder how much of my attraction to and desire for my dear lovely friend is a response to being in limbo, like if I had a night of good hard lovin', I'd somehow be free of the constraints of the relationship with Barb. How much is just a desire to be desired, a want to be wanted, a hunger for the flesh.

To be fair, the attraction I have for her is more than just sexual. She is hands down the sexiest woman I know, and I am not alone in that assessment. But she's also smart and quite shrewd, and generally a lot of fun to be around. And really if I were to get involved with her as more than a friend, I'd want it to last a good long time.

But I am currently unclear as to my own motivations for anything regarding women. Other than sex. Sex is good. I like sex. More than chocolate. But even more than sex, I like pleasuring my partner. I like touching, and playing with textures and different temperatures, different sensations. I like gentle kissing, everywhere. Nibbling, grazing, a little hot breath on the back of the neck. A little teasing.

But I also need to know it's allowed. I need to know that I have free reign to do these things. And right now, I don't.

But I crave.

Comments

magicmarmot
Jan. 21st, 2005 08:16 pm (UTC)
Methinks however that while the thought of giving the lady-friend-who-shall-remain-nameless a goot tongue lashing is appealing as all get out, the likelihood of that happening is somewhere around the chances of an impeachment of Emperor Palpatine.

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