Charlotte and I entered the day with a super hot, but unsustainable, relationship. We knew nearly everything about nearly everything the other did. Every interaction with any other potential sexual partner. Speaking in the morning, at noon, at night. It. Was. Intense.
I used to have a cat. He was spectacular. And he loved having his ears rubbed. And rubbed. And rubbed. And then, all of the sudden, he would fling copious snot, and turn on his rubb-er, and bite, hard. As if to say, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” And he would turn and run.
There was something of this to Charlotte – and to me – in the wake of our super-intense, nearly twelve-hour marathon of hotness.
When it was all over, when we all went our separate ways, both Charlotte and I understood that we had to put at least some of our genie back in the bottle. I welcome jealousy – even as it makes me crazy. And Charlotte is less practiced at managing its vicissitudes. But both of us needed – if not space, at least room in which to lead a sexual life that extended beyond the other.
This, we both knew, wouldn’t be easy. Both because neither of us has any intention of stopping seeing the other, and because so much of our relationship has been built on 24/7 control. We have to find a way back to a more measured, boundaried existence.
We will get there. But it won’t be easy. Or painless. And it will be – it already is – sad. Even as I expect, as I write this, that her mouth will be on my cock once again in just over 24 hours.
So at least there’s that!
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