Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Highly Contagious

After feeling not great the past few days, I took a half day off work and Now-hubby brought me to Urgent Care. One of my coworkers had already been out last week with strep throat, so I didn't have the highest of hopes in regards to my own wellness.

Downside? Yes, I have strep throat.

Upside? The nurse complimented me on my deep throat abilities during the throat swab. ("Oh, you're very good.")

My recommended course of treatment: 5 days of Azithromycin and 24 hours sick leave from work.

Which means I spent a bit of time this morning shopping for new sex toys. It's been awhile since I've added to my collection, I have a bit of extra income during the summer, and I've always wanted a butt plug with a jeweled base. Also treated myself to something made of glass, because that's a material I've wanted to experience but haven't as of yet. (I'll leave it up to your fantastically perverted minds, dear readers, as to which one I got.)

The rest of the day was spent in a weird state of not-quite-sick, not-quite-well stress. I had already taken 2 doses of the medication and was feeling better. I didn't, however, have the energy to accomplish anything beyond finishing Nurse Jackie and getting a few more episodes in on The Affair. Credit to my fantastic mental quirks for each time I tried to lay down and rest only to anxiously fidget for 20 minutes before getting back up. Difficult to sleep when my internal voices are running the show. The ones that echo out of the past on how if I was really felling sick I wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Or if I'm feeling so much better then why isn't anything getting done around the house today?

Those sentiments were repeated often when I was growing up. They weren't always directed at me, but were said enough within earshot for me to internalize them. People who are feeling sick are probably exaggerating, and there's absolutely nothing worse than having to take care of somebody else. I'm getting much better at shutting those internal voices down. When Now-hubby and I were first living together, me even thinking about taking a sick day could have been an all-night emotional ordeal. Today, when Now-hubby got home from work, I only cried for 10 minutes over the laundry before going into the kitchen and asking if I could have a hug. I don't know if I'll ever reach a point where I don't have to frantically fold laundry on the pretense that if nobody else is going to be mad at me, I'll just be mad at myself. It's bolstering to know that I'm still making progress, and that I can handle a slightly weakened immune system without having to completely impair my emotional system as well.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

The Very Spark

Abandoning all pretense, I just saved plans into Google calendar as "DP Date," because that's what the date is going to entail and I didn't want to waste keystrokes trying to be clever about it. I'll save the Sahara-dry wit for you all, dear readers.

Last Saturday, one of the other gentleman "on staff" at the gang bangs and I reached official peak boredom while downstairs watching a bunch of dudes' naked butts meander for spots around the women playing that evening. We started whispering play-by-play commentary to each other.

"Ah, here comes the rookie draft pick. He's an unknown talent, but he's showing promise."

"Jim, can we get the playback on that?"

"That's a strong contender for 'Fuck of the Night.' Definitely making the highlight reel."

There was also a new girl that evening who chastised me for being "mean" to one of the participating gentleman while I was chatting with him during social hour. Which just goes to show that, regardless of setting, my incredibly winning personality shines through.

Said gentleman and I actually know each other really well. He's used to my acerbic verbosity as an indicator of emotional affection. I relayed the information to him that I had been "kind of mean" and begged forgiveness in the prescribed method - on my knees.

Yesterday evening, I spent a fantastically platonic time with Newcastle. You know, because not everything in my life is blowjob innuendos. 

It's been a long time since I've written about Newcastle. This is not because we haven't been seeing each other. We didn't have to discontinue our friendship after we made out at a mutual friend's birthday party and he said he wasn't interested in being part of an open relationship structure. We did, however, spend a bit of time talking it over. Because there's one misconception about my "sexy" lifestyle that trumps all others: I'm more likely to wear out my jaw talking about all the intricacies of what everyone's doing and how everyone feels than I am to suffer strain due to the genitals I'm interacting with orally. 

The eventual summation: I'm a gigantic slut who's still got a significant crush on him. I'm also capable of respecting his relationship preferences and maintaining a platonic-ish decorum when we hang out.

For our date, we went out for conveyor belt sushi (our seat reservation number was 69, because even when I'm behaving myself, the Universe isn't.)

I bought him a milkshake on the way back to his place and teased him because the girl working the register clearly thought he was cute. We spent the remainder of the evening sipping whiskey while watching Clone High and the commentary track on a few Rick and Morty episodes.