In my little stretch of the Blogosphere, there is not an endless series of passionate encounters that affirms my sexuality and the sexuality of my wife, J.  As much as I like fantasy, I try to be honest about what goes on with me.  If you want bull caca, there is always Donald Trump, just to name one.

I am in the process of phasing in a Mio FUSE, one of those heart rate monitor/activity tracker devices that is tied into your Smartphone. I wore it yesterday for my walk and was generally pleased. The pedometer is accurate. It recorded my distance walked at 4.07 miles.  That confirms the distance I recorded for course length with my auto’s odometer. i say “phasing in” because I am a real curmudgeon when it comes to new technology or, Hell, even old technology. I must confess that I have yet to figure out (or even bother to use) that Kitchen Aid monster mixer thingy.  I feel like I ought to be drummed out of the Cook’s Army for that shortcoming. The way I see it though, it’s just one more thing to clean.

Generally pleased with its first use, I resolved last night to learn more, but I didn’t go back to the tutorials. I was caught up in a lesbian romance novel, At Her Feet  by Rebekah Weatherspoon.  It was a well-paced read, with characters I would like to meet and have as friends. It explored a BDSM dynamic called Mommy/little girl.  It isn’t exactly age play, but there is a Dominant partner and a submissive partner in the couple.

I am intrigued by relationship itself.  I look at what I don’t share about myself with J and wonder about her private self that she doesn’t share with me.   I don’t discuss my love of the erotic,  of the mystery of sexual love.  I conceal my interest and curiosity, perpetuating my sense of shame.  Needless to say, the concealing doesn’t elicit trust. and the cycle continues.

“I’ll go back to reality, but only as a tourist.” is a beautiful, sharp and hilarious one-liner from the play and film  A Thousand Clowns.  I have forgotten whose line it was, but it fits how I feel today.  I have to run down The Mystery of the Missing Paperwork  in order that my disability checks resume. That is a priority, plus pay the homeowners association dues and return a DVD to Amazon. Then I must send a mislabeled book back to an Amazon vendor somewhere in Ohio.

This weekend I got closer to J than I have been in a long time. We spent almost the whole weekend together.  Friday night would have been her 39th wedding anniversary to her first husband. She tells me, “My wedding night was when I lost my virginity.” I ask her to tell me more about the experience, not from a perspective of physical details, but from an emotional, a “feelings” point of view. She says nothing.  That silence said more than words.  How do I get closer? There are things that need to be said. Things like, “Honey, I feel like you hold back from me.  Is that why you are afraid of sex and don’t have orgasms?”

Sunday night, she did laundry. I had to put my jock straps in the washer, because she did not want to touch them. Is that weird or isn’t it? Underwear is OK. Jocks are a no-go. Then when I didn’t wear underwear under my pajamas, she acted surprised. There is much to be said, evidently.  I guess we’re all afraid of something.