Tonight I try an experiment. I have no plan. Well. That is a lie. I have a plan to have no plan. The idea is to simply begin writing and see what happens.
I know. It’s an old trick. But I’m still curious. The title of the post just came to me. The Absence of Plans. Funny… On the surface I can appear to go with the flow. And that is perhaps because depending on the situation I often do. Why fight a current if it will take you where you’re headed anyway.
But often I have deep and well laid plans. Ones I tell no one about. Ones where I have visualed the many paths that can lead to where I want to end up.
I rehearse conversations. It’s something I’ve done ever since I was a child. Suppose Ashley says X, how will you respond, I would ask myself. And then if you say that, she could retort with X,Y, or Z, the train of thought would continue until I had bounced around how I would respond to a tangle of conversation. All this in a matter of moments.
I wonder if all that bouncing around in my brain at such a young age developed stronger links throughout regions in my brain, making diplomacy and thinking on my feet second nature.
Why do people call it second nature? If it’s natural enough to be second, isn’t it really first nature? I digress.
But I suppose that was the plan all along.
But oh yes. This is supposed to be a somewhat sexy blog. And I’ve been letting you all down of late.
No. You will not go reread what you’ve written while you dream up something sexy to write. It just has to flow.
-pause while I ignore my own instruction and reread-
Is feeling centered and happy the absence of sexual angst? I ask because that feeling of being on edge, that terrifying delight of almost out of control, is absent.
Sex is an almost daily (sometimes thrice daily) event. Sometimes it’s quick. Other times it goes on for ages… foreplay to coupling and back again multiple times. But I’m slowly fumbling at something here.
I’m. Not. Lonely. Every night I share my bed with this man who is figuring out how to show me he adores me. I am happy.
There is a fine line between pleasure and pain. And not just in the physical sense. Love is like that too. Take it to the very edge… The brink… And it fucking hurts. It’s not happy anymore.
So maybe I don’t love him as passionately as I have loved in the past. That doesn’t mean it isn’t love.
He’s fondling my breast now. Perhaps in his sleep… Or not. I will put my phone away and find out.