You’d be so proud of me. A. came into town and I DIDN’T see him. Yay me! But, ugh, I found myself worked up over all the phenomenal, throat-sore-the-next-day-because-I-screamed-so-much great sex that I’d missed out on. Wow, I was worked up.
And since I’m an independent woman who can take care of herself, I set about taking care of myself. I had a perfect quiet moment, one child out of the house, the other child fast asleep. So I pulled myself into my most private space in my home, my bathroom, and pulled out my vibrator . . . which, btw, is actually just a dildo because it has no batteries, because my ex stole them as a final parting display of his childishness. But that’s another post . . .
So there I was, thinking about A., thinking about how perfect he feels inside me, thinking about the way he rolls me over onto my stomach after he’s gotten so worked up over watching me orgasm multiple times that he just can’t stand it. I was thinking about how his hands feel on my ass as . . .
The bathroom door cracks me right on the head. Um, ow. But at least my cranial fracture kept the door from opening, which is a really, really good thing. A really, really good thing.
I think perhaps I’m traumatized for life.