My sex life is certainly NOT like the movies, . . . I just wish it was ~ Lucky Lopez

Blog #9: Limp Spaghetti, Cold Fish, and No Sex

Day 109:  No Sex

It has been a week since I last saw Max, and we shared a hot mini make-out session in my car – post too many beers.

Admittedly, I have thought of him more than once since then . . .

Okay, like every ten minutes . . .

But I promise, every time I think of him I force myself to stop, until of course – an additional ten minutes elapses . . . and then I find myself repeating the vicious cycle.

I have not heard from Max since that infamous night.

Subsequently – this “insignificant” little detail has (of course) caused me to become absolutely fixated on the issue – pining over all of the endless possibilities that could be the culprit:

A.  He thought I was a sucky kisser
B.  He was so drunk – he doesn’t remember kissing me
C.  He grossed out after he realized he had kissed an old lady
D.  All of the above

I don’t know what strategy you implore, but one of my law school professors always insisted:  ”When in doubt, pick “D”.

That’s actually slightly okay though . . . Because I have already made a pro’s and con’s list of all the reasons I should never see Max again – the con’s entirely outweighing the pros – and I am so glad that you now realize I am NOT completely and entirely neurotically obsessive . . .

Phew!  Okay, so now that we got that little “non” skeleton in the closet out of the way . . .

I have now been “encouraged” to re-spark the flame with my current beau, just in case (let’s be realistic) that was my last momentary cabana boy rendezvous . . .

As a refresher:  Prior to the Max intercession, I was mid-sex-inducing-strategy with my sexually unmotivated boyfriend  . . . beginning to exhaust all options:

An attempt to display a bit of sexy lingerie and a complimentary penis pat unfortunately resulted as failed attempts to increase any “hot” activity under the sheets . . .

I must admit however, I may have given up slightly prematurely . . . allowing even a tinge of rejection to criticially injure my already diminishing self esteem.

I believe it was Jose Narowsky that once said: “In war, there are no unwounded soldiers,” . . .

In that case my friends . . .  I’m gonna need a few more band aids, splints, and bandages – because I am determined to win this war against my man’s apparently apathetic penis.

In this vein, I decided to spend a little quality time with my man on the “cave bench” – also known as the living room couch.

So yesterday, I forewent my typical evening date with facebook, and went to join him in his evening of CNN worship.

Traditionally, when I sit next to him on the couch, I am ignored until I poke my toes into his thigh long enough that he submits to granting me a sliver of attention.

This time however, when I approached him in the CNN “temple,” he reached out his hand and said “Come cuddle with me  . . . . ”

Yes, I know . . . your shock is as profound as mine . . .

However, I set aside my temptation to make a snide remark – and decided to engage him in his offer  . . .

We snuggled for a while, and then in a commercial break dividing something about “the battle between Democrats and Republicans,” and the forthcoming “something you won’t believe” – he initiated the first attempt at affection:

a platonic kiss on the forehead . . .  not surprising.

But it didn’t stop there . . .

He then proceeded with the “downward kissing trail” also known as a “top to bottom face kiss” often seen in epic movies like Braveheart or Titanic. . .

He kissed both of my way-too-chubby ( I am realizing) cheeks . . .

and then my curse-ed double chin . . .

Then finally, my lips.

The kiss was sweet I must say . . . but it was unfortunately comparable to kissing a cold fish, or a wet and limp vermacelli noodle . . .

Admittedly – it could have been me and my regrettable inability to erase the incredible memory of kissing Max’s luscious and savory dark-chocolate-on-vanilla cupcake lips.

I tried repeatedly to shove any thoughts of Max (and his lips) out of my head and give the couch kissing more than the old “college try”, but I was miserably unsuccessful.

I found myself breaking up the kiss with intermittent smiles – a strategy women sometimes utilize to interrupt a kiss they obviously aren’t enjoying – however like the guy too much to administer a full dose of rejection.

Feeling unbelievably guilty – I diverted the uncomfortable moment by getting up to offer a consiliatory glass of wine – and then en route to the kitchen – began to punish myself profusely in my head.

I was finally receiving some sort of affection from my beau . . . something I had desperately wanted for the past painful 4 months – and now I was too “college-kid” distracted to receive it.

I began to wonder:

Is this what happens when you finally get what you ask for in life?

You eventually get it – just not in the form or fashion you ask for . . .

would like . . .

or expect.

Here I am finally experiencing the passion I’ve been yearning for . . . unfortunately, it is from a kid a decade my junior – forbidding any possibility  of a functional relationship.

I suspect this is a cruel 30′s joke  . . . except I am somehow missing the punch line . . . .

Can someone tell it to me?

I suppose there could be solutions to my dilemma, I just don’t know if I could ease my conscience enough to pursue them – if you know what I mean.

Nonetheless, unable to ease my conflicted conscience – I forewent any attempt to resume the kissing fest with my beau.

Alternatively, I took him a goblet of decent cabernet . . .

and then the night continued in ordinary pre-Max fashion -

with no sex.

- Lucky

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