These Cucumber Eyes

Imogen Heap tells me "it's good to be in love."



I'm not so sure.

It's hard to be in love. Like this, when things are so easy and honest, and the only real obstacles are money and geography.

Those are big obstacles, but in the scheme of things, less troubling than never being less than 2500 miles apart.

I walk in New York, which is becoming more mine with every visit, and I am happy. I walk with Jefferson and Lillie to shop for new speakers for his new computer. We walk side by side in the supermarket and unanimously veto Lillie's request for Cocoa Krispies cereal.

I walk by myself, never get lost in the subway, and feel sweet autumn evening breezes on my skin. The lady in front of me at Filene's Basement passes me her coupon to use, the shoe salesman at TipTop professes his love at first sight and flirts, saying that, for someone with a face like mine, he'd make the shoes if they didn't have my size.

I tell Jefferson that story when I return to his apartment with my new shoes. I love that he thinks it's as funny as I do, and then we dress up and go to a swanky dinner with tables and a seating chart and later the man I'm seated next to, clearly smitten, tells Jefferson that he should really bring me back to the city more often. I love that my boyfriend doesn't hesitate to tell me things like that and that we can be high on knowing how good we obviously are together.

And it at once amuses and depresses me that one of his colleagues introduces us to her husband as "Jefferson and his wife, Madeline."

Afterwards she says she's sure she'll see me around the school that, as it turns out, her son and our Jefferson's son Jason both attend. Um.

Walking in New York I see kids riding in those strollers with room for two or three–kids shelved underneath and behind each other and standing on little platforms above the wheels–or running around with their nannies at playgrounds and I wonder whether mine would totally hate it. I try to imagine us living in the city, and sometimes I can. It excites me to think about the opportunities they'd have here. I want to bring them for a visit. And I secretly hope they'd think that living here would be awesome.

I know how difficult the city can be. Unfortunately, I am also in love with it. I have to figure out a way to rectify those things, because you can't just forget about something that's become part of who you are. Just because it's hard. Just because there are easier ways to live. Because this tears-streaming-as-my-flight-takes-off thing? So upsetting.

As it turns out, the tears-streaming-mid-flight thing isn't so great, either.

I don't like it.

Bot of the Flesh

In the midst of my recent projects and deadlines, Jefferson called to ask me a favor.

His computer, she was broken. Could I possibly round up some titillating stories for loyal Fleshbot readers?

Of course I said yes, because he asked nicely.

Here's the thing: When one has lots of sex, and writes about sex a lot, one usually chooses quieter, more mundane activities than reading sex blogs. Like knitting or playing Sudden Death Clue, if you must know. Of course I read my friends' blogs, in my feed reader, but I don't spend the hours that some do reading every sex blog out there. Turns out that it's a lot of work, and not as easy as it seems. For me.

But it turned out alright, I think, and I was happy to lend a hand to the fine folks at Fleshbot. It's cool, too, that I found a few more feeds to plug into my reader.

This Friday's Roundup (typos in the intro not mine, I can assure you) is all about the buttfucking. Probably it's because I've got anal violation on my mind. Probably because somebody really needs me to give it to them nice and slow with a bloopy silicone dildo in their bum.

Read the Roundup here. Make sure to tell them how you like it.

(Aw, I know you like it sweet and slow, baby.)