Well Laid

I am definitely not well rested, but certainly very well laid. Which is fine by me. Very fine. And very healthy.

Richard must be the only person I’ve slept with in the last 2 years that would make sense going out with. Mostly because I like him a great deal (yeah it’s only been 2 days, but you’ve no idea how fantastic it’s been). It’s kinda strange, but this really is something that could make sense. I’m not going to bother to think about what’s going to happen one month from now, and I don’t think that really matters. But it’s actually the healthiest relationship I’ve had this year. That the sex is so mind-blowing aside, I like him a great deal, and he likes me back. Which I would suppose is always a good thing.

I was contemplating between finishing my painting and dropping by his place last night, although I was sure I would have been too sore for anything more than a cuddle. Texted him, but he didn’t reply, and I didn’t want to call –It’s always weird at first, everyone’s trying to behave as cool as possible. It’s almost like a pre-requisite, and in some ways I guess this sort of behaviour has its merits-) He eventually did though, and I’d pretty much finished what I needed to do with the painting (It’s called Drip Garden loosely based on a composition I wrote when I was 15, about a park where drug addicts went to for an overdose and then euphoric death).

I asked him what he would normally be doing if cute, barely legal girls weren’t coming round for a shag.

‘Masturbate to porn and then to bed.’

‘Oh lovely. Then it’s not like I’m distracting you from saving orphans in Cambodia or writing the next Man-Booker.’

He told me he’d been sitting on the couch earlier with a massive errection thinking about fucking and contemplating calling me over. But he’d decided against it, for reasons I suppose like wanting to play it cool. Like I said, there are virtues in that, but sometimes, somethings are worth compromising for.

At one point in time I agreed with him that he was a pervert. And he hit me back and said I wasn’t any better. It’s the first time someone actually actively called me a pervert, and after a few seconds of thought, I couldn’t disagree. My death fantasy is after all to get my mouth blown off while riding my kidnapper. Or giving a blowjob to a trucker driving a Shell oil tanker down the autobahn in the wrong direction, in perfect collision course with another such similar vehicle.

Christ. He’s so edgy I love it.

I’m not insane-crazy about him like I was over Martine, but that was completely unhealthy for me anyway, and it did take me awhile to realize the fact. There’s absolutely no need to rationalize how another individual feels.

I mean, how the fuck do you rationalize, I enjoy hanging out with you, you’re a great shag, and when you’re into me, you make me feel damn good about myself.

I don’t expect much in my men. As long as they’re interesting, stimulate me in every possible way, and viscerally attractive. Oh, and they shouldn’t be broke.

Oh, and that I should know I’m someone they can be crazy for.

xoxox