19. A tactile creature

     There’s always a certain amount of stress around here. My husband’s job is a bottomless well of the stuff, and of course I’m not entirely sane or stable, so while one of the arguments for quitting my job was that I would be able to maintain a certain amount of tranquility around the house and be reasonable enough to talk him down off the occasional ledge (instead of my own work stress serving to amp up his, until we were one big, spastic snowball), it doesn’t always work out that way. Usually, as should come as no surprise, we burn off stress with regular sex. It’s a pretty dependable method of dealing. Sometimes you just have to let the rest of the world go fuck itself while you hibernate and fuck each other. Nothing chases away the ultimately inconsequential aggravations of a shitty day like a hand to the throat or a face crushed into a pillow. When a Tuesday fucks you the way Tuesdays so often will (have you ever noticed how much more often a shitty day is a Tuesday, than any other day?), it’s cathartic to let somebody throw you down and fuck you better, until you’re gasping and your pelvic bone is bruised – or alternatively, to rip the clothes off of someone who knows exactly where your head is, and pound them into a puddle of human butter. However, sometimes the aggravations aren’t quite so ultimately inconsequential, and if you don’t keep up with blowing them out of your system in explosive orgasms, they can pile up and smother the static electricity of even the most well maintained regimen of sex therapy. A week or so ago, we found ourselves at the bottom of just such an avalanche.
      When life becomes impossible and it’s all my husband can do to keep his shit together and not simply burst into flames, he becomes almost claustrophobic. It’s like the radius of his personal space grows three times the size (just like the Grinch’s heart – pop, pop, pop!). He needs space. He needs nobody anywhere near in his face. He needs stillness and quiet. When I’m at the top of my game, I can draw him back. Even if I’m running on low, I can at least get him drunk and make him laugh and we get through. If I’m my own special brand of psycho though, it’s a different story.
      I am a tactile creature. (I know, gasp & clutch the pearls!) Lots of people are visually stimulated – it’s part of why humans escape into art and action movies and porn. Some people are auditory and need music to keep them sane. Some are taste oriented, and they eat. (I wonder if there are people whose dominant sense is smell?) When I’m one step away from pulling a Thelma & Louise, what I need is physical human contact. Touch me. Grab me. Hold me, grope me, tie me up and wail my ass with a riding crop, I don’t care, just don’t leave me dangling in the open air with nothing to cling to. See where this is going? When my husband and I are freaking out at the same time, we have to catch it quickly, usually by fucking like monkeys, or our methods of dealing with stress only serve to stress each other out even more. Roll in the big, spastic snowball. Sometimes when the natural disasters of life – like, I don’t know, every relative you have who shouldn’t ever be in the same room with the others are all arriving and staying for a solid week of intense awkwardness and uncomfortable silence – the sex that is possible just isn’t enough to hold it off. This is where we’ve been, since last you heard from me.
     Frankly, we were there before the relatives even started arriving. We had known exactly what we were in for, and the horrible, spiky dread of it had us shuffling around, twitching, like a cross between zombies and Sylvester the Cat, post-kangaroo. I don’t think we were three days into the actual horror, before we hit the wall. Really, hitting the wall was what we needed, because it forced us into desperation sex. Are you familiar with desperation sex? Where the last thing you remember thinking is Fuck it, and then you’re in a mutual throw-down, a free for all? There is nothing slow or gentle about it, at any time. What might otherwise be a caress is a grip that’s likely to leave a mark. Kisses are borderline violent crushings of lip and tongue. Often it even manifests as battle sex, and you come away with injuries you don’t remember sustaining. It’s the fight club of fucking. Panties get ripped away, hair pulled, wrists caught and pinned behind the back… Usually if I’m deep throating my husband’s cock, he leaves me in control – I’m going to be less than humble here and suggest that perhaps I’m skilled enough at this point to be left to my own devices – but if it’s desperation sex I’m likely to be grabbed by the back of the head and have that cock forced into my throat, intentionally gagged, and in that moment I wish for nothing else. Until he’s thrown me face first against the headboard and is fucking me so hard from behind that it feels like he’s pummeling my ovaries, and then I wish for nothing else but that. Until I’m sitting on his face and he’s sucking my pussy until he can’t breathe (turn around & fair play, etc.), and then I wish for nothing else but that. It’s fucking in the moment and caring for nothing but morebetterfaster and I’m gasping “I can’t fuck you enough,” and riding him and grinding myself onto his cock until he has to throw me off to keep from being actually harmed, at which point he’ll pin me by the throat and do the same to me. You come away reborn and redeemed and in a state of relief that looks a lot like collapse.
     Usually. But we were only three days in.
     The familial onslaught continued, even after everyone ran out of things to say, only they didn’t stop talking… So the uncomfortable silences that followed the awkward conversations were in turn followed by inappropriate rants and bizarre, nonsensical ramblings… It was very like being trapped on a long airplane flight with a crazy seat mate who won’t shut up. Have you ever thought you were going to be that person who just flips shit and goes for the exit door? That was us. The deep muscle exhaustion of holding a plastic smile for days on end… It was too much to leave us capable of recreating the desperation sex, but that one go hadn’t been nearly enough. That’s when the random grope assaults began. I’d be sitting there, in the middle of my first deep breath of the night, after seeing everyone off to (separate) hotels, and suddenly his fingers would have my clitoris in a toruring grip. Or my nipple was grabbed and tweaked until I cried out. Two different nights he fell asleep with his fingers in my pussy. This, of course, is exactly the kind of thing to spin me right the fuck up, and our usual sex life was sort of renewed – except that it was more like our normal sex life’s alter ego. The evil twin (who we know and love, but don’t generally see on the regular). Short bursts of maniacal ass fucking and violent orgasms that totally destroyed the mattress, even despite the handy little waterproof blanket – or because we didn’t take the spare moment to spread it out. It was fast sex, fast and fearsome (and fabulous). On top of that, I am in penalty. I was so stressed out by the whole of the week, that I tweaked my neck and decided to go get a massage. Since the massage was to be neck-specific, I asked for my collar to come off for it. He agreed, but until it is put back in place (at his discretion), my ass and pussy are fair game and must be accessible to the whims of his mind and fingers at any time, whether or not there’s going to be actual sex in the immediate future. (You might point out that they always are, and you would be right, but that opens another topic on the dominant/submissive aspect of the relationship, that deserves its own post. I know I’ve dangled it out there before and not yet followed through, but I haven’t forgotten.)
     So, our established sex life reasserted itself on the dark side, such that even now that our house is empty again, I am a tactile creature with teeth. Instead of curing me of my desperate needs, it has reignited them over and over again, and I am simply letting myself spin out of control. I have more reason than usual to be sending pictures to my husband in the middle of the day, because I can’t stop fucking myself at the thought of him. I have dirty dreams that I can’t remember, and spend my mornings smearing my body all over his pillow. I’m taking sex toys on long car rides and showing off at stop lights and on-ramps for semi drivers and motorcycle riders. I am wet. I am wet all the time. I am wet right now, writing this. I don’t know where it’s going, but I am definitely riding shotgun.

 (And the kid just called to say that he’ll be gone for the night. Fuck, yes.)