Turtlenecks and Scarves

(I now have three posts in the making and have scrapped them all for one whiney, bitchy post about sex. Someone recently told me I was a nymphomaniac...who knows...he might be right.)

A lot of people who read this blog have made great fun of my post awhile back about the "Depeche Mode" thing.

What they fail to realize is that the whole Depeche Mode thing only really works when I'm by myself. If some crazy schmuck starts singing "Personal Jesus" in the middle of P.F. Changs...it won't do nothing for me besides maybe make me want to walk away.

However, there are songs that make me all giddy, and they're just as strange and depressing. My favorite, all-time, can do no wrong band is the Barenaked Ladies. I love their sarcasm, their modern-type poetry, their funky looks at normal things.

Yesterday I was listening to their Stunt album. (Doesn't it feel strange to call it an album when really these days it's just a mix of songs on an over priced disc? It doesn't really have the prestige of an album. I once read somewhere than it takes the manufacturer $0.75 to create a full cd. Each. But they sell for $15 and up. Go figure.) The songs were enough to make me feel all giggly and teenagerish so by the time the storm started here I was perfectly content to sit on the sofa and make-out with my husband.

I know why I felt all giddy, but I don't know what came over him last night. He doesn't like kissing, he used too, but after he finally got to go past first base with me he announced he was no longer interested in tongue wrestling. I also think that since he started smoking he's become self-conscious about it. I have to admit I'm not always understanding when he comes in smelling like Marlboros, usually I don't care, but I'll still wrinkle my nose when it's bad. Last night neither of us cared.

I honestly don't know what got into him. It was a pretty wild night and we both ended up uber exhausted, if not completely satisfied. It was fun, because C. was really into making out and playing and rolling all over the bed. As I've said before he's not one for foreplay, and I'm all about the teasing. But last night was almost perfect for me to actually "get there" in a spectacular way. I don't ever get to those screaming, earth-shattering orgasms when I'm by myself, it's really freaking rare when I'm with him. Last night I was maybe 20-30 seconds away from a wake-up-the-apartment-building orgasm when he decided it was over. I can't blame him, we were at it for a long time and I knew I was pushing it...but 30 seconds...come on...half a minute.

I lost it...it will never come back...I miss it.

This morning he became the husband-from-hell, demanding a different uniform be ironed for him, not getting out of bed on time, using all the hot water, taking my car without telling me, generally being a big brat. And once he finally left and I was dressing after my trip to the arctic shower I noticed two (yes two) giant, unmistakable hickies. One on either side of my neck. Last night I was fairly certain I had one little one behind my ear (didn't bother to look since this morning since it's not visible without me pulling my hair way back) - I guess I wasn't paying attention to his mouth when the other two happened.

Needless to say I'm wearing my hair down WAY over my shoulders. And Barenaked Ladies has been ejected from the car stereo cd collection for the day. Heck maybe for a week.

I don't know if I'm grouchy because my neck feels bruised, because I have to wear my hair over my face in July summer heat, because he's a big prick, or because I'm still feeling denied. But either way I have nine hours before I have to talk to him again and I'm trying to figure out how to make it ten. Isn't great sex supposed to make you happier? What the heck is wrong with me?