Blast from the Past

Once upon a time (cough, cough… 2010) I had an impotent make-out boyfriend. That’s all it ever was. Bless his heart, he had a dead penis and home runs weren’t part of his skillset. He’d learned to work with what he had to offer, and could kiss me blind. I used him for attention and clarity. It was a mutually dissatisfying relationship, but a damn delicious distraction from responsibility and adulthood. 

At a certain point, though… no penis, no party. It was the one stumbling block I faced in trying to date women. It’s just disappointing to me after a while. I love foreplay as much as the next person, but at a certain point, it’s time for kick off.

Touchdowns, home runs, goals. These are all important and non-negotiable to me. He could give me an orgasm just kissing me. Sometimes several. It was intense… but exceedingly frustrating. 

Wouldn’t you know, out of nowhere this morning, a text came chiming in to my phone. 

C- Happy holidays, Vixy I’m in town, call me.

J- I  always loved that nickname, and no. Give your mother my love & take care!

Ring, ring, ring. It makes me laugh just seeing his name on my phone. Willpower is my drug of choice, though I do cross my fingers and hope for a voicemail. I remember the heart racing addiction to kissing him all too well and I need more sexual frustration like I need a whole in the head. No pun intended… but…hard pass. 

Victory. There’s a voicemail.

C- I hoped you wouldn’t answer so I could leave a few of my questionable plans for you in a format you could listen to again and again…

Things definitely got questionable and I made sure to delete it off my phone AND the iPad, immediately. 

I’m working all weekend and as entertaining as the idea is, it’s not at all tempting. I’m juggling motherhood and premature Christmas decorating along with corporate orders in every corner. Sewing my face off, not sleeping and preoccupied to the point of distraction. 

I want 8 hours of sleep, a dozen orgasms and a housekeeper. I need a lazy day of football, bacon and blowjobs. How’s that for a grown woman’s Christmas list. No wrapping, necessary, though I do love a bow. 

I’m all set on frustration and I don’t reread the same book in hopes of a different ending. The map he wrote no longer applies  to me and I know the dangers of opening Pandora’s box, recklessly. This isn’t worth the hangover and I honestly can’t believe it ever was. It’s a strange thing to have my past rear it’s pathetic head, but it’s a beautiful thing to realize I value myself more than I did then.

Now about that bacon….

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