Sexual Liberation, Concentration and Edification

Okay - here we go.

I feel as if my psyche is pushing me to write about things in this blog that may be deemed innapropriate or a bit crude at times by some.

However, if you know me at all - you will know that this is just me, and that this is my personality and no matter how many charm schools I fail out of - it's not going to help the matter at all.

So, onward I churn.

Sex is my topic of choice today - and the complexities of it. No, my dear readers, I am not talking about navigating the pages of the Karma Sutra - nor will I utter the word "Tantric." But I will talk about the nature of our desires for the horizontal tango with our partners. I have decided that sex is a lot like food (please do not analyze me and my chunky self right now, we'll get back to that later) and that just like food, sex can either be an appetizer, a four-course meal or a full-on uncensored glutton-fest (think Thanksgiving Day and Stretch Pants). And sometimes it can just be something you get a hankering for, like a Hickory Farms cheeseball.

Also just like food, once you skip a meal, or two, or even three, your hunger can subside and you have just become "past starving and not even hungry anymore." This loss of appetite can happen when partaking of food, ahem, or anything of the sort is not on your mind as often as it would have been before. Traumatic events, long absences or mucus-disaster colds can push food and quality snuggle-time to the back of one's mind.

I think mine got lost back there, it's stuck in between a massive amount of useless Harry Potter Trivia, a mental image of Nathan Fillion's delectable derriere and the schematics to Dawson's house on Dawson's Creek.

Case in Point: My dear hubby came home last night after a hellish week in Georgia and all I could do was shun his advances. Was it that I was just not having a craving for a cheeseball at the time? Was it the fact that my legs have been neglected for two weeks now so much so that if I were to appear in public the Boy Scoutswould attempt to chop down my legs and sell them as Christmas trees? Or was it the simple fact that there was a grannyhermitcouch within earshot of our first floor bedroom?

I still don't know.

But I'll make it up to him.

Now, where did I put my copy of "The Joy of Sex?" Oh yeah... right here... next to "The Joy of Cooking"....