In the past I have marvelled at visit numbers quoted by keepers of sexing-it-up blogs and pondered the modest undulations on my statistics. Too insular? Poor writer? Don’t comment enough on others’ blogs? Too scared to go photo crazy? Boring life? Insert other reasons here.
However, today I’m eternally fucking grateful for a small and valued coterie; I can purge this tale in safety without a chorus line braying I told you so or I saw that one coming from a mile away.
The upside is I have learned how to introduce a degree of reality when the secret, all-consuming utopia created with a lover is becoming a little too perfect. Let me impart my new wisdom.
Create a shared account and profile on an online dating site to search for a third man or woman with all good intentions, and watch the seams of perfection fray quicker than a pair of old jeans.
Stop shaking your heads at my naiveté.
Here’s how. See your lover leave work at lunchtime the day after posting an ad because he is fixated with the landslide of views and messages. Hello, that time could be spent with me, the human, the flesh and blood person!
Log in when he can drag himself from the computer and check the profiles of those he’s sent smiles to. A 15-year-older cross dresser, scary-looking vampire couples in too-tight black and whore-red latex, a gang bang organiser. Log off and step away. I remember saying I was a fusspot, not a fuckpot.
And, to finish lesson one of this week’s exercise in stupidity: read the messages he’s sent to other women. Feel stabs of jealousy-driven pain when his words of endearment for me are used on others. Engage the green-eyed monster to stamp her feet and shout, “But I’m ‘Sweetness’, not that trumped-up trollop who is probably a man using a woman’s photo.”
That hurt. I’m not as special as I thought (and I know deep down this reality check is a good thing, but I’m still allowed to feel offended for a while).
What on earth was I thinking? I was horny and we were getting excited discussing combinations and permutations and amalgamations, but we exist on stolen moments as it is. I don’t mind sharing his body but I’m rather furious at the thought of sharing his time. Our time.
I re-iterate the sentiment in my last post about ArmyDude that I would let him do anything to me, but I need to add a caveat of ‘except go hunting together’. I have no fucking idea how to control my new carousel of emotions or decide the outcome I want, but I’m smiling – at the moment it’s a tightly-clenched grimace with fits of maniacal laughter at the situations I get myself into, but I’m smiling.
Learning life’s lessons by doing before thinking? I has it, too.