So I’ve been attempting to write a letter to Scout since recovering from Mono (I hate that disease). And every time I put pen to paper (yes, it is an old fashioned snail-mail type letter) I end up writing down something along the lines of fuck you. See, even though I know Scout being away is a necessity, it does not make me any less angry that while I’m here, Scout is there. And I don’t like that. Obviously. After about a month and a half of separation, I’m so ready for that happy, horny fuckathon reunion that better be coming my way.
It’s no surprise by now that I am a huge fan of sex. Lots and lots of sex. And the amount of sex I was enjoying dropped quite a bit when Scout and I started dating. That took some getting use to but once I was, it was all good. I decided I liked Scout enough to exchange endless sexual encounters for a one-on-one affair. ME plus ME equals WE. That idea grew on me.
But what about when there’s only one ME in the state? All of a sudden, WE is put on hold because one ME is gone. Leaving this ME waiting. Impatiently. And without sex.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Apparently, I’m not the whore I use to be. Cause it’s been close to six weeks and I haven’t cheated. Maybe I’m broken? Isn’t it suppose to be like riding a bike? No, wait, that’s sex itself. Is it possible to suppress a side of yourself? Don’t try blaming my conscience. I squished that little Jiminy Cricket son of a bitch years ago.
Honestly, the thought has crossed my mind. Hence the personal manipulation to keep myself behaved. While I thought it was working, I have a feeling the universe felt differently. Who the fuck gets mono when their being good? Yea, that’s right. Even with all the whoring in my past, I never got mono, or any other disease, for that matter. Scout goes off for three months and that’s when I get the “kissing disease.” Say what the hell?
(Turns out there’s a really good chance I got it from Goose. No, no tawdry affair. Just me rundown and Goose with a flair-up and a shared cigarette.)
So, were the Fates just bored and felt like there weren’t enough less-than-perfect to go around? Did they think I was not able to keep myself in check? Irony, maybe? I mean, it’s not like the universe is punishing me for giving up the after dark lifestyle. Right?
Anyways, back to that damn letter…
It all comes down to me not knowing what the fuck to say. Personally, I don’t think I’m so beyond pissed about the whole motherfucking situation that I can barely for a coherent line when speaking to you. So I keep putting it off. But what does Scout think when I haven’t sent anything but not-so-nice vibes? This whole out-of-stateness was unavoidable. I don’t want to be angry, especially at Scout.
But I am.
And me without the preferred attitude improvement technique (you know, sex) creates a rather not happy panda. So what to do? I haven’t really figured that out, hence the unfinished letter that had been restarted dozens upon dozens of times.
Holy hell, aren’t I suppose to be a fucking writer? How hard is it to begin with Dear Fuc-
Shit. Fuck. Shit. That’s the problem. Misdirected anger. I think. No, I’m sure.
So, me being the not-too-open type (unless behind a keyboard or with pen in hand) I decide to reach out to Shortstack. And realized quickly that was a mistake. See, Shortstack is… well, kind of flaky (that’s me with the whole benefit of the doubt-ness) and as such I was forgotten. Or maybe ignored. I don’t fucking know; I haven’t actually said more than Happy B’Day to him since. So I did what any unbalanced writer does and bottled it up until the opportunity came to funnel it into something write-able.
(Fair warning: my life is full of nearest and dearest inner-circle members letting me down. It will show up more than, like, a dozen (hundred maybe even) times.)
I sort of told Duck, Goose and Tweety but as the norm, I kept most of the details to myself. Like how I miss snuggling on the couch while we attempt to watch a movie only to have it turn into foreplay or Friday nights with Duck, Goose, food and a double feature (porn and cult). I miss those texts that come hours after I send one. I miss the random conversation and the strangest dates ever. Fuck me raw, I even miss the god-damned lodge, though not as much as everything else, of course.
And by Hades, I miss the sex. The kissing and the sucking and the fucking. The messiness of it. the heavy-breathing, covered in sweat, passing out of pure blissful exhaustion. Ah, sex… I remember it well…
Six more weeks. Six more weeks. Six more weeks.
I never realized a relationship could be this close to the singles’ life (excluding military families, of course). Then again, being single can still mean physical attentions of the NC-17 kind. And those were some good times… You never knew who you would meet. Hell, sometimes, you still didn’t know who you had met the next morning. Life was so much simpler then. So much so, that I’ve been missing it.
Maybe this is why Goose asked if I would be single again soon.
No, I am not breaking things off with Scout because if this… separation. I fully intend to stay faithful and ride it out. What’s another (gasp!) six weeks?
So in the morning, I will again pull out the pen and paper and attempt to write that letter to Scout without using any nasty language. Mostly. None will be directed at Scout, that I promise. I’ll just start with Dear and (hopefully) go from there. And wait those six weeks.
Six weeks. Six weeks. Six weeks.
By the way, if that fuckathon is absent once Scout is back home…