One step forward, two steps back

The weekend started off with my being a real grumpy-grump to Gilb, admittedly through no additional fault of his own beyond my prolonged silent rage about the whole kissing thing (both my lack of ability and the discovery that his best-kissing ex is listed as such on his Facebook profile).

Anyhow, on Friday night I cornered him for a sufficiently long time to get extensive kissing practice in, and he claims he’s seeing (feeling, tasting?) significant improvement in my technique. I gave him the whole third degree about it, to make sure he wasn’t just telling me what I wanted to hear, and after my Nazi-like inquisition, I came to believe he was being truthful. So there, miss bitch ex! Haha! How far along have you come since your last lip-locking adventures with my boyfriend???

But all the good work of Friday night may have been undone on Saturday: my boyfriend would have every right to tell me I’m too forceful in the sex department. See, on Friday night (during my irate part of the evening) we were at his friends’ house drinking and talking shit as usual, where Gilb had pitched up rather triumphantly wielding a six-pack of Amstel he’d found hidden in the recesses of his parents’ fridge. Naturally, all of us advised him against its consumption, but the Gilb would have none of it. “It tastes a little… smoky and … mushroomy” F said. “Whatever. You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to drink it, so that I’ll leave it here and you can drink it instead!” [guzzle, guzzle, guzzle]

As a result, Gilb awoke with a massive headache on Saturday and we had to forego my favourite sex session, the morning variety. I insisted he take every Myprodol and Aspirin we could find, but his headache persisted throughout the day (of course, this didn’t stop him from drinking a fair amount during the rugby), through dinner (Yamato, Illovo – decent Japanese food at twice the price you’ll find it anywhere else) and beyond. But see, there must’ve been some oysters secretly stashed in my udon noodle dish, because I was having none of his excuses. I was so “in the mood” that even that pathetic late night E soft-porn show was arousing me.

I told him to go to bed, planning to sate my own appetite in the lounge (sorry, Peas!) but then did an about-turn and decided I’d take my sex from him, not without his consent (I’m not a rapist, I promise!) but rather by convincing him he actually wanted some: “You know liefie, I think sex will help relieve your headache. It always helps me when I have one, and I’m sure I read that it would do the same for guys in the FHM a while ago.” Poor guy, his head was throbbing so badly he didn’t think to retort with “but you don’t ever buy the FHM…” I sealed the deal by promising that I’d do all the work, he could just lie there. So he did, and I took my guilty pleasure from him, me writhing in ecstasy while he winced in pain. Look, I did stop once or twice during his most pained expressions to ask if it was helping or if he wanted me to stop, but the dear that he is, he let me continue (it’s not like he didn’t get any enjoyment out of it, if you know what I mean).

When we woke up on Sunday morning, he reported that his headache had disappeared entirely, which I victoriously announced as the result of my assistance the night before, but I’m not entirely sure he bought it.

I do feel remorseful for my behaviour though, like I used him – if the situation were reversed, how would I be feeling about it, I wonder? Seems like there’s plenty more work to be done in the ‘gentle intimacy’ department. Sigh. Sex just aint the way it used to be in the old days, innit?