I’m sitting here watching baseball. J is taking a hot bath because of generic back pain, most likely one of the scores of teeny tiny little kidney stones in her medullary sponge kidneys has worked itself loose.
I read some pretty good
naughty, dirty stories on Word Press. I feel like I’m not enabling the perverts of the world by reading this stuff.
Meanwhile, the Red Sox and Orioles are going at it in Baltimore. I keep thinking how it’s hot and thoughts of Maryland twenty-five years ago pull me back to the days of early recovery.
Now I wonder if I’m not a sex addict too. I fight all these feelings and thoughts. Sex isn’t an entitlement but sex sure feels good. Expressing my needs and then get ignored, or feeling like I’ve hurt her by acknowledging my need in the absence of any libido on her part, just makes it too painful. Being with a woman when she comes is so incredible. Having my own orgasm too. Then eating breakfast together the next morning after we’ve made love the night before. And she’s glad I’m there and I’m glad she’s with me. If we’re someplace special like the beach in the off- season or Manhattan, that day together is even better.
This part of Summer when we’ve almost turned the corner on the hot weather, and thoughts turn to Fall increasingly are nice. The thought of the seasonal change and how, in your mind’s eye, the leaves turn perfect shades of red, yellow, and orange, the wood fires in the fireplaces smell perfect, are such pleasant thoughts. All that stuff.
OK. Back to Summer and I’m still horny.