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Backslide

Tag:executive conference table Rugs executive conference table | 49 Viewers| neonpussycat 2009-03-29 15:40:57 Publish:
"You look like a classic Playboy centerfold right now. From the late Seventies, when Hef still cared about actual beauty, not just generic blond hair and big fake tits."

Sprawled out on the black leather executive couch, naked except for a pair of fawn colored knee-high boots, I affected my most coquettish pout. It lasted for about thirty seconds before I broke sex kitten character to sit up and gratefully accept the glass of water Mr. Mysterio offered me. After a couple of hours being bent over and stretched out over most of his office furniture, I was parched.

After a month of relentless non-communication, Mr. Mysterio and I entered tentative friendship negotiations. Neither one of us enjoyed the constant fighting, but the deliberate silence was even more unsatisfying. Bottom line: we missed each other enough to work around the problems. One of the key perimeters we agreed upon was keeping everything strictly platonic. Ideally, removing sex from our dynamic would quell his (irrational) jealousy and keep my (excessive) anger in check. It took all of two hours and about six email exchanges before I picked a fight. Frankly, I blame the PMS for turning what normally would have been an opportunity to make fun of him into something akin to the Nuremberg Trials.
I was already failing at casual, big time.

A couple of days later, after I had to some time to work the crazies out of my system, I stopped by his office to make an in person apology. I thought he'd be more inclined toward forgiveness if he could see how contrite I was, in my tight pants and slutty shoes. When he got down to the lobby, I could barely get the words "I'm sorry..." out of my mouth before he grabbed my face and started kissing me like there was no tomorrow.

"That wasn't very friendly," he said, as we eased off, "no, as a matter of fact, that was TOO friendly. You hungry? C'mon, let's go eat."

Obviously I wasn't the only one who was having a problem dialing it back.

The full extent of this problem became apparent a week later, when I was waiting for him to wrap up a telephone meeting so we could grab dinner. The minutes ticked by with people saying their good nights until finally Mr. Mysterio hung up and we found ourselves all alone. In no time flat, I was undressed (save for the boots) and testing the stability of various conference tables.

Our little office romp and the post-sex pillow talk (we were stranded in the back room for an hour when housekeeping decided that was day to shampoo the rugs right outside the glass door where our clothes were) did a lot to illuminate the situation but very little to change our circumstances. Regardless, it's good to have him back and to be back, even if we're still crawling on our hands and knees through the emotional muck.
Comments:

For me atleast, dealing with the emotional muck of being with another person far outweighs dealing with the demons in your own head. Or maybe they are both from the same hell.


Comments:

But how do you even separate the two? I mean, as cliche as it sounds, any relationship is as much about your own issues as it is about the other person and whatever mess you make together.

Mr. Mysterio drives me insane with all his shit, but because he's perceptive and (I hate this phrase) a good communicator, he's taught me more about myself than anyone else I've ever dated. Not just in terms of what I need (or, more accurately, what I never need again), but how I am. That's what makes all the fighting worthwhile.

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