Motivations and progress

I complain to my therapist, Deirdre, that Virgil is incompetent. He cannot tie up properly and he cannot beat to my satisfaction. He doesn't care about kink enough to be skillful. Virgil is a very amazing head on a body that he doesn't really live in. Dyspraxic is the word I use in private. It's unkind but therapy sessions are not a place to pull punches about people who aren't there. I think about how much better for me solo-therapy is than joint therapy.

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Weekend away

I swallow my reservations about going away with Virgil but my fears are realised when he has to work for most of the weekend. And when he doesn't have to work, he is preoccupied. Virgil's favourite thing about the weekend: the swank, minimalist hotel I find for us. It has a swimming pool on the roof and the best blackout blind in existence. We sleep cocooned in darkness until late each morning. 'Nine hours!' crows Virgil happily and gets back on his laptop. He keeps remarking on what an excellent choice of hotel it is.

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Off

I sat down to write yesterday and something entirely unexpected came out, quite different from the usual. Sadly it's not suitable for this blog though. Today Virgil and I are packing our bags. We are leaving our windy, rainy city for a weekend somewhere hot. I could tell you that I have experienced something of an internal struggle about it but I won't. Instead I will say only that I am a very fortunate harlot and that I am looking forward to spending a quite unprecedented (for the last month) number of days in the company of my beloved.
Hasta mañana!
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The life & death of plants (trigger warning: other people's poetry)

I germinate the idea of a tattoo:
A vine and leaves uncurl, push out inked tendrils 
across the wing of my shoulder blade,
Quietly sprouting, ripening, fading, 
Extend green shoots of fertility and decay. 
Verdure has a doomed, unfolding richness,
And the first shoots of life are also funeral flowers.

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First date

I have a date with Oliver tonight. I haven't told anyone about it. When Virgil asked what I was doing I said only that I was busy. We have an honesty policy but I don't think a first date needs to be announced in advance of its happening. If it goes well (or very badly), I'll tell him: for now he can speculate.

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Tantric masturbatory explosion or did I just get lucky?

Hey all of you with nine-to-five jobs. It's Monday morning and I've nothing on. There's not a thing I have to do this morning. I have a very little bit of paid work later and time with Virgil and a birthday party to look forward to in the evening. I've checked the flatshare and job sites, written a few emails, looked too long at Facebook and resisted the urge to read a novel. I've also just had the most incredible wank.

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Psychic squatting

I harbour territorial feelings. I no longer live there but almost all of my possessions are still in Virgil's flat. This amounts to a sort of psychic squatting. When I consider how I feel at the prospect of Virgil taking Sarah to bed in it (previously our bed was off limits but ownership has reverted to Virgil and strictly speaking he can do what he likes), I realise I have to start properly extricating myself.

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