June 30, 2005 - 10:57 pm

I always say, if you're talking about it, you're probably not doing it. So here goes.

Sex has been on my mind a lot lately. And I don’t mean that in that big picture, philosophical way that I usually approach things here. I mean it in the low-down, nitty-gritty I-haven’t-had-sex-since-December-yes-December kind of way.

That’s a really, really, really long time.

And it’s bad. I’m having sex dreams practically every night with the most bizarre cast of characters – old college professors, married friends of mine, Gene Hackman, a folk singer girl in my freshman architecture class. I fantasize about sex with random people I see at the grocery store, and the most banal kissing scene in some stupid movie makes me weak in the knees and hot in the loins. My god. I’ve become a man.

This whole sex thing is a problem for a number of reasons.

1. I’m not officially divorced yet. Yes, it matters.
2. I’m used to John, and he’s really good.
3. My days of uninvolved sex are long past. Oh, loose morals of yesteryear! Why hast thou forsaken me in these bleak and troubled times?
4. I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now. (See #3) I made a promise to myself not to get involved for a certain length of time, and that time has not passed.
5. Even if I did just jump into bed with someone (which has been on the tip of my…mind a lot lately), I’M EXTREMELY FERTILE and the last thing I need at the moment (besides an STD) is another baby. A man sneezes in my general direction and I get pregnant.
6. My “sphere of influence” isn’t what it used to be. With a few glaring exceptions, I don’t know many single men and even fewer I’d consider sleeping with.
7. I’m shy. Shut up. I am. I’ve been married for over 8 years now, and the thought of getting back out there is a little terrifying. Did I really just say “getting back out there?” Like I need cheerleaders or something to get my ass off the bench? Please pretend I didn’t just say “out there.”

So I’ve got this constant battle going on in my head (and my over zealous nether regions) between what I want to do and what I should do; and I’m doing okay for now, but for god’s sake man, how long can a woman be expected to go without?

John has graciously offered to fill in until I get back on my feet, and I have to admit it’d be convenient. I mean, we are married, he’s had a vasectomy, and he knows my body. Plus the kids wouldn't wake up and scream "There's a MAN in Mommy's bed!" Still, although I have been tempted lately, I just can’t do it. I don’t know, I just can’t. It’s probably a combination of pride and not wanting to give him false hope that we may get back together that’s keeping me honest for now. Besides, I'm perpetually pissed at him, and that kind of spoils the mood.

I’m sure Erik would do the job. Lord knows he’s offered enough times. He’s so considerate, isn’t he? He had a few people over to his house for dinner last night, and there was the slight possibility that one of his (several) other married women friends might run into a past fling, a good guy friend of mine. Erik said something like “She should be used to running into former fuckees by now. I think I’m the only guy in Auburn she didn’t sleep with. Hey, you two could start the ‘Thank God I Never Fucked Erik' Club – Population: Millions.”

Tag (the dog), for his part, is trying desperately to get into my pants. He’s half beagle, and apparently, well, beagles are humpers. Yeah. Eight weeks old, just home from the Humane Society, had his tiny little balls cut off the day before …humping my ankle. I thought we'd just gotten off on the wrong foot (pun totally intended), but it's just gotten worse. I got him this crate that he stays in when no one’s home. I keep a blanket, a bowl of water, and a few chew toys in there for him, and he likes it just fine. Well, last week I had to get down on all fours to put fresh water in the crate, and damn if that dog didn’t come up behind me and jump up on my back and start humping! My sweet little puppy! I was horrified. I was all like, “Get OFF of me you crazy animal!” But I was kind of laughing at the same time. Poor little old dog. Never will get him any and doesn’t even know what he’s missing. Unlike, oh, say ME for instance.

Let’s change the subject, shall we? I thought so.

I'd planned to meet some friends at Piedmont Park for Screen on the Green tonight. They're showing Grease, so we decided to bring a picnic of 1950's type American food. You know, burgers, fries, pies, etc. So, I'd made The World’s Most Beautiful Apple Pie last night for the dinner at Erik’s, and it went over so well I made another one today for S.O.T.G. But then I couldn’t find a fucking parking space anywhere remotely close to Piedmont Park after driving around for like 45 minutes or something. And I’m way too sexually frustrated to walk a mile with my pie in my hands. So I came home and typety-typed out this little number about sex and pie instead. I'm so resourceful!

And here I sit. Not having sex. Not making overtly lewd pie innuendos. And all done typing. Whatever shall I do now?

~Samantha

recommended:
reading -Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
viewing - A Streetcar Named Desire
listening -“Ball and Biscuit” by the White Stripes

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