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Imagination for your sex life

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Carys started chatting with a guy a few time zones over that she met on a dating app. He seemed really wholehearted and sweet. He was pretty horny though. He said he was going through an autism diagnosis because of "social awkwardness, intrusive thoughts and lack of confidence."

It's challenging to find the balance between really liking someone and wanting it to take off and also retaining your own desires. The balance could be in locking your phone away and not anticipating communications all the time. This isn't an issue only reserved for contemporary humanity. In Jane Campion's Bright Star, John Keats' wench (in the archaic humorous sense of young woman, not whore), okay more like fiancee, is overcome with desire and need for communication from him, obsessively checking for the mail. This definitely happens in many an Austen novels. It's not new. It's more fun to maintain some control and then submitting instead of panting and waiting for the next text.

It's a matter of self-control, which is appealing in most circumstances -- eating, working, sport, driving, moving. How to intermingle self control with naturalness is where

Anyway, one afternoon this week, Carys suggested that the two chat. They were texting back-and-forth and apparently he was out with workmates getting lit even though earlier that day he said he rarely went out. By the end of the evening he just didn't respond. She decided to experiment and address that she was surprised he didn't say anything about not chatting that evening. He apologized and said "he's been a bit weird and ill lately"and was sweet and even responded to her other message, unrelated to her feelings about his lack of communication. She wrote back and now he hasn't responded in over a day, which isn't ultimately that much time, but in the scope of the frequency of their past messages, it simple seems like ghosting.

To avoid the ghost, does she just pull back? How does she find the balance between engaging and being detached?

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I can believe that what happens in space affects our puny selves, but for some reason, the commercialization into astrology makes it feel less mystical or believable.

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7 aug 24

After waking up in an overcast haze, I summoned the energy for my lengthy morning routine. After that, there was only time to briefly check in on a renovation and to catch the train to meet N at a lingerie sale.

There was a line when we arrived, which I, like most self-concerned New Yorkers typically turn our noses at, we decided to wait. I set my timer and just by our self-determined deadline, we were permitted entry across the mosaic threshold by a tough lady with braided hair secured with black and white beads.

There were racks lined with all types of sultry, mismatched bras and underwear in chaotic sized but mainly in the "ample hills, your partner must like milking" type size. Even my busty companion found them too large. I don't navigate these sales with rationale and I don't describe what I'm seeing to myself. A different mechanism takes over and I just barely glance at sizes while pulling garments in colors and patterns that appeal to me.

This sale was conveniently announced just days after I had engaged in my first ever act of video sex. I'd put on one of two of the only sexy lingerie I had in my closet in the hopes that my on screen partner would acquiesce when I asked if it were okay to take off my dress. (It was okay.) I realized that I'd need to pad my undergarment drawer if I were to keep my future of the digital dalliance fiery.

From the crook of my elbow down along my arm dangled white and a lace white bustier with red metallic foil flowers, a sheer black thong with keyholes by the sacrum, a purple sheer bra trimmed with lace, and other items that I thought may be engorgement inducing.

I realized that in my singular goal to produce an LED arousement, I'd lost track of my friend. "N," I politely resounded.

"In the fitting room."

I walked to the front and asked to be let into a small corner so that we could appraise each other's selection. The woman in the front of the line bravely and only slightly brusquely said to go and then gatekeeper said if the chorus was okay with it, then I should go in.

I tucked into the corner, the only area exposed onto the street and I disrobed and tried on bra and panty after bra and panty. The mirror and lighting reassured everyone that they looked like lingerie models. One woman had the pertest ass I ever saw. I stole many glances trying to ascertain its authenticity. I'd never thought of plastic surgery for myself, but I wondered what the politest way to ask for her doctor's name. Not to execute it, but just to know the name of the person who has attained such mastery. Later I saw her tits and I was less convinced. Not because they were flawed. In fact, they were also beautiful, but the banality of a boob job ruined the whole effect for me.

Another pair of woman, sisters, rifled through their findings and they'd turn too each other asking, "too scandi?" Some women come to lingerie stores to enhance their scandalousness while others to minimize. A woman complained about pleather being too cheap, especially in light of her advance age. "They call it vegan leather, but it's still pleather."

I had amassed enough to ensure the release of the chemicals, signals and responses needed to achieve a hard-on over our 7 inch screens for several meetings. I emerged onto the misty drizzle that seemed to emanate not only from the sky. As I read on the subway platform, the man next to me yelled, "there's someone on the tracks." I leaned over and saw a man with his arms crossed like a mummy rolling back-and-forth from shoulder to shoulder along the track and the wall. I looked down the dark tunnel and didn't see or hear a train approaching. I motioned to the man that there's usually an emergency call system on the platform and the man called.

All that's possible in an hour in New York City.

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A good time

"The trouble with a secret life is that is very frequently a secret from the person who lives it and not at all a secret for the people he encounters."

James Baldwin, Another Country

I'm not starting with an epitaph from a well-respected writer to come off as intelligent or literary. I just happened to read it today and it struck me that now was the time to start a diaristic Tumblr. To expropriate myself of the thoughts that I no longer want to hold onto and, in a high ideal, benefit someone else. But I'm doing it because I just want these out in the world and not just ricocheting in my skull.

I prize measuredness, especially for impact of meaning, but that ain't going to happen here. This is going to be a verbal emetic. Tumblr, a sickness bag.