Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Five Days: Or, The List Cometh, 2.0

I haven't been posting as much as I'd like, mostly because there's not that much to post. Spending the holidays with my folks means that I haven't seen Tim in way long, which means that my sex life is pretty much imaginary. The List, epic work that it is, continues to quietly grow in a document named 2010 Classwork. And I'm getting ready to see Tim in five days. My folks are dropping me off in my City, and I'm going to straighten out my apartment, see a few friends, and get started checking off the List items.

It's been a rougher month than I expected it to be, and I find myself getting pretty cranky over missing Tim--something which never really happened in other relationships. Over at Sugarbutch Chronicles (), Mr. Sinclair Sexsmith is giving his (her? hir?) girlfriend "homework", an interesting concept to me, especially since this summer, Tim and I might end up at opposite ends of the planet for a month or so.I hate the idea of us coming together only briefly during the summer, and finding in late August that we have no idea where we are sexually anymore. Being able to assign each other sexual tasks might make it easier to keep us on the same page, connecting our two (currently separate) sex lives in the same way that talking runs a thread between our daily lives.

None of this is stuff I've had to worry about in previous relationships, even long-distance ones, because they were held together mostly with old chewing gum anyway. Unhappiness was a standard feature. My past relationships were like rental cars; I just sort of assumed they could drive over anything. But with Tim, even scratching the metaphorical paint worries me--enough that I, incorrigible pedestrian, have resorted to car metaphors. The problem with having nice things is having to worry about them, which I hate, and take care of them--which, it turns out, is more pleasurable than I ever thought it would be.

So that's my state of mind. The List may be spiraling a little, as my fevered imagination throws things onto it that I'm not sure are possible. For example, getting fucked in the ass with a vibrator, which sounds fantastic in theory but which in real life may end in "ow, ow, no, ow..." But it's never hurt me before to set my sights a little high. Every time I've been a little ambitious--in my writing, in my classes, in my dating--it's been greatly rewarded.

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