Bear with me, all, this post’s been a long time in coming. And those of you who still manage to stop by occasionally may begin to understand why Vikki’s been such a quiet little thing this year.
It’s been a tough year. There’s been cancer, and almost-cancer, a heart attack, aneurisms, a cat that said goodbye, sick dogs, one very young death, new jobs and new apartments and business crises and a new relationship that has somehow weathered that past year and is still going strong, if not quite as naked-sexy-writhing-on-rubber-sheets as we’d both like.
And I’ve read that some people actually manage to get off on all that crisis, manage to take all those shakes at normalcy and mortality and turn it into something frantic and moist and pulsing between two (or more) naked bodies. Good on ’em, I say. For me, it’s been sufficiently crazy and emotional and gut-wrenchingly tense that I’m lucky to get in the mood at all, some nights. Luckily, I have a very patient (when I can’t) and sexy (when I can) man in my life.
But I’d be lying if I said this year hasn’t had an effect. I haven’t played as much as I’d like, haven’t had my face shoved into the bed while my ass is de-pantified rapidly and abruptly for some spankings and a good hard fucking nearly as often as I’d love.
And it’s turning me into a bit of a control freak. It’s making me whimpery and whiny (at least internally) when things aren’t absolutely perfect, if sex tries (naughty, sex) to happen when I haven’t planned or anticipated it to happen, if it happens where or how I haven’t imagined it, and sometimes my body shuts down. But really, most of the time it’s my mind, somehow struggling for control in this one area, I think, since I seem to have so little control over illness and mortality and all that other horrifying human shit.
I hate it. I want to get back to Little Miss Goes With The Flow, the woman who may want to control everything at work but can snap into submissive mode in a heartbeat with the right firm hand on the back of my neck, the right harsh sexy tone whispered in my ear. And my man can help with this, but a lot of it has to happen inside me.
I have to damned well relax. I have to give in, give up, not worry so much about what’s going to happen if I’m not driving for ten goddamned minutes. I have to stop worrying about not being perfect.
And so, the plan. That’s what you’ve all been waiting for, hasn’t it? Some reassurance that the lady sex blogger isn’t just going to implode all over your computer screen, and not in a good way?
I’m going back to basics. Back to where I was five years ago when I escaped my marriage with only the tatters of my self esteem wrapped around me and my sex drive dialled down to zero.
I’m going to start devoting time to my sexuality. Same as I’d devote time to walking the dog or calling my mom or having moments of meditation, all the things we do for ourselves every week to keep us sane. Just a little each day, something to make me feel sexy or earthy or slick and wanton. Taking more baths. Reading more erotica. Playing more with my poor, neglected sex toys before they leave me for good.
Wanna watch? *wink*