The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Spring Fever

I almost never know when I'm going to spout.

Last night, while nursing a gurgling belly full of acid and bubbling venom, M. took a seat next to me and innocently began watching as I flipped from channel to channel. Can I just mention how stupid I think Western Society is becoming? It's nearly impossible to ignore the swift decline of intellect with the click and push of the remote. Language is dead, smarts are extinct and it worries me. Everyone is so busy being politically correct, to the point of tedium, that they've managed to sidestep the hard truth that a lot of people, mostly the young, are becoming simple. Text junkies. Followers of formula. Botox believers, photoshop proselytes, butchers of eloquence. It's a saggy-panted, baseball capped, gum-cracking, no-what-am-sayin', collagen lipped, breast augmented, super-size it, corporate sell-out, lie upon lie kind of effed up world. Why are we afraid to say 'yeah, I know it's a little harsh to come straight out with it, but let's get to the truth of it: you come off stupid'. Where's the class? Where's the thought? Just argh.

So, I took the lack of engaging programming as a sign from above that it was time for me to let out a little truth of my own. I asked M. is he is waiting for me to get back on the pill, or if he intends to spend the rest of his life touching me and rubbing me but not ever entering me. The look on his face was worth the stress of coming out with it, because he was flummoxed. Look, I said, I need more sex, frankly, I'm a youngish woman who knows what she likes, what she needs, who she wants to link with, and I'm not satisfied with the tender touching and the fiery fingers. I need meat, I said. I need heat and I need friction. I used to find sex awkward and unstimulating, but I've come to realize that this was more to do with my partner than with my libido. Now, I said sharply, I like it. I need it. I want it. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and then went on to tell me that I was the one who'd said I would start taking the pill again, and didn't, to which I responded that he didn't seem to have much of an opinion about it so I put it off because I didn't like how the pill used to make me feel, siphoning my sex drive and occasionally tangling my insides. Why not use a condom?, I asked. He said he feels nothing when wearing one, and I told him I wasn't having that because millions of men do just fine with their members wrapped in latex. He maintained that they numb him, cut off the blood supply, and I sat back in frustration, frothing like a beleaguered beast of burden.

It got heavier, then, because I'd opened the gates and he was ready to come through. Essentially, it has to do with my 'warmth', or lack thereof. He's a man who responds to action, not words. He needs me to be ready with hugs, to touch him more, to tell him when I want him. He can't read my mind, doesn't know when the light is green, feels more sexual himself when the connection between us is at its strongest. Did I really find the only man on the planet who needs a love connection to want to get it on? Please. Then, it went into the areas of my living in my head, leaving him out of it, my moodiness, his moodiness, my worry over the job situation, his worry about it, how he wants to support me in anything I choose to do, how I need him to know that I do love him, that I do need him, that I do want him even if I seem detached at times. We hit on how he relished my semi-breakdown a couple weeks ago because I expressed true emotion, that he felt attracted to me in that moment because I was so real, so unguarded. He likes my vulnerable side while I find it to be almost impossible to express. He wants me when I'm weeping and unglued? What is wrong with him? He likes when we have deep discussions, feels the heat between his legs when we do, and I almost always come away from those conversations feeling feisty and ready to punch anything that moves. I never feel sexual then. I don't understand angry sex, or makeup sex for that matter. I like hot, passionate, late-afternoon, early-evening, slow, head to toe, tongue-lashing, hand smoothing, lip tangling sex. I don't want it to mean anything, most of the time. I don't want it to be the finish to an argument, or the mutual apology. I just need it to be mutual and human.

He acknowledged that he has noticed the changes I've made in myself, lately. I asked why I don't see any in him. He said that he doesn't know what I need because I don't tell him. Okay, I said. He had a point.

I'm young, I said suddenly, I haven't had a lot of sex in my life to this point, and I want more of it. I want it to be fun, and spontaneous, and passionate. I do not want schedules with red x's pencilled in. I do not want obligatory copulation. I insist on more, now. I have a right to it.

We left it alone soon after, mostly because of the gurgling stomach and the fact that it's never good when you've talked about it as though it were a scientific experiment. He knows now that I am dissatisfied at times, and I know he needs me to talk to him more, to touch him just because.

I do love you, he said, smiling.

I love you, too, I grinned back.