I’m not even sure what context provoked that harsh limitation. Probably some sort of obligation—kids’ school, doctor’s appointment, work, or whatever—but I was still feeling kinda frisky. Regardless of the scenario, I’m not sure I actually liked the restriction. I still loved that we found that little slice of heaven, to be sure. But for this—and for life, really—I need more time, my love.
Implying something, Dickmoji? That I finish a little prematurely? Well you don’t know my business, do you? All-in, give me an hour, please.
I’m serious. Foreplay alone is substantial. Let’s do the math:
Let
S = the total time required for sex
F = the time spent during foreplay
I = the time spent during actual intercourse, and
C = the time spent cuddling, basking in bliss
If
F = 15 minutes,
I = 10 minutes,
C = 15 minutes,
solve for S.
S = F + I + C = 15 + 10 + 15 = 35 minutes
Yes, Dickmoji?
First, cuddling absolutely counts. And second, you are right. Not an hour. Perhaps I overestimated the typical time. But it’s still more than 20 minutes, brah.
Sigh. You have no clue. But considering you’re a carton avatar, I shouldn’t be surprised. Cuddling is an integral part of connecting with your partner. And with Nikki, it’s not an option to eliminate. With previous partners, perhaps. Actually, with previous partners it’s likely that cuddling wouldn’t occur. We just didn’t have that emotional bond. But I t’s completely different with my Queen. And it’s beautiful. Cuddling counts in the sex equation, Dickmoji. Believe it.
So what’s the point of all this? I guess it’s time. And the fact there’s just never enough, is there? Like yesterday:
My angelic wife, the one pictured up there, the one where cuddling with after making love is a requirement? She’s super supportive. Shockingly so, really. It’s amazing, at face value. But even more so for me, because I never had that support in other romantic relationships, or from my parents.
Evidence of my soulmate’s encouragement? Mountain biking. For me, getting out in the trails, in the woods, clears my mind. It’s exhilarating and it helps me to just live in the moment, something I I don’t always do. But the thing is, I blow it off a lot of times. Why? I just don’t make the time. I have sooooo many things on my fucking calendar and I never complete them all. The things that suffer are things for me. Not things for anyone else. Things for me and my mental health. They’re the to-do’s I routinely push aside. But with the help of therapy, it’s a deficiency I recognize. How to correct that deficiency is another matter, but at least—like an alcoholic acknowledging their illness—I’ve taken that first step.
As my therapist suggests, I’m a bit of a people pleaser. Most of my time—my life—is for others, leaving little left over for myself. Yes, I have my stuff on the calendar, but that doesn’t mean anything if I’m constantly neglecting them. To make matters worse, when I’m reflecting on the day, I feel guilty. I feel like a failure for not staying on task. Day after day, that guilt breeds more guilt. But with the help of my Nikki, I hope to break that cycle.
You see, she pushed me to actually get out on my bike, to spend time on myself. She also recognized the importance and she lovingly kicked me out the door. But before doing that, I threw her on the bed (she kinda likes when I do that) and we made love. And there’s the rub; there’s that time thing again. Although we didn’t have a 20 minute limit, I did have a obligation on the calendar: a doctor’s appointment.
Unplanned—but amazing—sex (cuddling included, Dickmoji) compressed the time I had on the trail. In fact, the time restriction diminished the joy I had in the woods. Instead of simply having fun, I worried that I’d be late for the doctor’s. What the holy fuck?
Ever feel like you can’t win? I mean, I did win. We made love, and I got out on my bike. Why then, didn’t I enjoy the moment?
No, idiot. Of course I enjoyed being intimate. Ever see my wife, Dickmoji? I was talking about mountain biking, obvs. A thing I’ve been trying to fit in my calendar for months, yet would routinely push off in favor of doing things for others. A thing that my therapist insisted was crucial for my wellbeing. A thing that my wife wholeheartedly wanted me to do, knowing it’s importance in my life. And a thing that I wanted to do. Yet when I was there, actually doing that thing? I was in my head, because of the constraints of time.
Time just keeps ticking, doesn’t it? The seconds continue slipping away, drawing closer to whatever happens to be that next deadline. And the sand keeps falling down that hourglass of our life. Too often I focus on how little sand is left, rather than the individual grains, enjoying them as they pass on by. That’s a harsh realization: knowing how much of that sand I’ve let go, without cherishing it while it was here. There’s still time to change, Markie. The question is, how?
I know I keep talking—and blogging—about the same sorta stuff. My therapist says it as well, that we’ve been down this road before. I have these tools in my possession—breathing exercises, journaling, meditation, talking—yet when I need them, I don’t follow through. Yes, I have my daily practices that I follow. And that’s great. But in times of stress and overwhelm? Not so much. My therapist asked me today, “Are you stubborn?” I guess, if I’m honest, I am. But I think there’s more to it than that. There’s a lifetime, actually.
Growing up in a loveless household, I was never taught the tools to soothe myself. And I never had anyone to assist me. My parents were simply incapable of showing love and support. It’s kinda hard when you’re narcissistic and think the world is out to get you. And it must be kinda hard when you have hatred for everyone around you and when you never wanted kids in the first place. That’s the environment I grew up in and even though it wasn’t remotely healthy, it’s something that grew to be “comfortable” for me. It’s easy to fall back into that mode when that’s all you know. Change isn’t easy, my friend.
I guess that’s why I wallow in sadness and grief. I stay there, not because I want to, but because I’ve been there my whole life. I want to be happy, but when the sadness comes, it’s familiar. It feels as if that’s the way things are supposed to be.
I’m learning and I’m trying. And I’ve got to recognize that not all days are going to be filled with happiness. The sadness will come. The anxiety will come. But I can’t sit in it, because that’s never worked. It’s always been a losing recipe.
I apologize, Dear Reader, for the rinse and repeat cycle of my blogs. How many times do you need to hear about my abusive and emotionally unavailable parents? Isn’t enough, enough? Maybe I’m comfortable with this blog topic, much like I’m comfortable with feeling sad about my life, and myself. Each week I tell myself to “move on” and not rehash he same sorta shit, but each week, like gravity pulling me down, that’s where I settle. It’s time for a change, Markie. It’s time.
First, fuck you, Dickmoji. Second, tune in next week. There will be a change. Maybe my post will be about anal irritation or my preferred method of searing steak or climate change or whatever the hell else comes to mind. But it won’t be about my somewhat sucky childhood. Been there, done that.
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