Monday, February 4, 2013

1. Fuck chicken soup; I need to get laid.


            Logic says that the cure for exhaustion is rest. At the end of a physically and emotionally traumatizing period, we need recovery, we need comfort, we need to be good to ourselves. Allow ourselves a little respite… I submit to you that hours and hours of crazy, monkey sex is a far superior remedy. Don’t “be good to yourself,” get somebody else to do horrible, unspeakable things to you. There is no relief like the kind of sex you can see the evidence of on your body the next day. The cure for exhaustion is better exhaustion. Fuck until you cannot stand up. Trust me: When gravity alone is too much for your pussy to bear, your dehydrated soul will begin to renew itself. When even your reserve tank is dry as dust, fill it with cum. You’ll feel better.
            The first stage of unemployment felt for me like convalescence, as if the impact my job had had on me was an illness. I knew I was going to feel guilty when I didn’t go back to work after all the germicidal residue had been wiped away by the alcohol swab of not getting up at the crack of dawn, but until then I was going to enjoy it. I didn’t know how, I only knew I deserved to feel free without feeling bad for awhile.
I don’t remember if it was on the first night of freedom that I realized the ‘how’ was going to be sex, but I like to think I at least got soundly laid. My husband and I don’t really do half-assed sex. Even when we’re only in it for a quickie or a leisurely sort of lazy fuck, it’s still always good enough to make me have to masturbate with thinking about it, the next morning. But the crazy thing about sex is also the crazy thing about sleep or Chinese food: When it’s really good, getting it doesn’t satisfy your need for it, it only makes you want more. I took to briefly waking up early with my husband and “spooning” by rubbing my ass against his cock until he’d submit to cumming all over me. When I woke up again later, I’d assuage my loneliness at his having gone to work by using his cum as lube with which to get myself off. Eventually he set a rule by which I have to send a picture to his phone, every time I fuck myself in his absence. That’s written in the present tense intentionally, as the rule still stands.
I love that rule. It’s just the kind of thing to keep me unemployed.


(Here's a fabulous song with which to embrace debauchery.)


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