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The Stuff Stories Are Made Of…

I don’t consider myself a nympho, or horn-dog, or any of the like, but I enjoy sexual intimacy with my husband.

And since we’ve “reconnected” over the past couple of months, it had been non-stop. I was amazed at the seemingly boundless energy he suddenly had and how attentive and in-tune he was. And though I am an eternal optimist, I wasn’t always that way. So, of course, I waited for the other shoe to drop.

And, at risk of jumping the gun here, I believe it may have.

During this time, he’d tried to convince me that his sudden ravenous appetite had nothing to do with his insecurities or fear of my searching elsewhere, but I knew better. There had been lapses before, dry spells even, but he vowed to not let it happen again.

I realize that we are married with children, and three days could hardly be considered a dry spell, but…it’s been three days and well, I’m a little pissy.

I’ve been out sick from work and I’m more rested than words can say, so yes, I might be a little bored and restless. He still works his crazy schedule and he’s been tired. But I still awakened this morning wondering if these three days are the start of old habits reforming. I don’t want to seem like some desperate or oversexed housewife, but I also don’t want to lay back, shrug my shoulders and let things fall by the wayside once again.

However, I’m not the “keep initiating until he complies” type. I have my pride, you know.

The other night I dreamed an idea for a story, I guess my crazy, geeky version of a “wet dream” really, and I started writing it the next day. Now, my stories are rarely inspired by my (lack of) sex life, but I wonder if doing more of the type of writing could be somewhat of a good distraction.

Sigh.

Oh well.

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