I really must stop thinking with my vagina…

I am weak.  It’s like my vagina has its own brain.  I’d be stoned for my behaviour if this was a couple of hundred years ago.

So, Mr. Stole the Book.  Well, he’s back.  Or more to the point, I manufactured the coming back.  I’m not smart enough to take Mata Hari’s advice that it may be time to cut my losses, move on and find someone more suited who I could also have great sex with.  (She is the poster child for having her shit together when it comes to this – I bow down to her). Or KMS pointing out to me that although there is nothing wrong with Mr. Stole the Book, I am, in her opinion, too good for him. (Also a poster child in the common sense department – another bow).

My friends are very smart women.  I’m pretty sure I should listen to them and stop thinking with my vagina.  But I would find that boring.

I had a lot of time to think the other night as was up for most of it.  In the middle of the night, I had a minor epiphany – it occurred to me that I was cutting off my nose to spite my face by being a total bitch to Mr. Stole the Book.  I have no other booty call prospect lined up at the moment.  Not smart for a menopausal women with hormones raging like a teenager.

Despite his various flaws, (and I have the exact same flaws), I’d basically tossed one of the best booty calls I’ve ever had.

I sent him a text message telling him I wanted to talk to him about something.  He calls, I tell him it has to be in person, whenever he has time.  He asks me if I want to tell him I have a STI.  I tell him, no, that’s not it, and if I did have one it would be because I got it from him as I’m tested every year for STIs and clean.

We get into a minor argument over who is at fault if I had a STI – me or him.  Moving on.

He invites me over to his friend’s place for a bar-b-q, and pulls out all the stops and cooks me steak, rare like I like it, with roast potatoes, asparagus, and mushrooms.  Delicious.

He comes over to my place afterwards so we can talk in private.  I set the tone by apologizing for being so bitchy to him.  He asks me about his friend that I slept with out of pure spite (I told you this was a small city and he would find out).  I admit it all.  We have various back and forth, he said, she said, blah blah blah.  I put on my humble face and freely admit to possibly being a bit harsh to him.  He tells me I hurt his feelings and that the girlfriend doesn’t really mean as much to him as I do – what is he supposed to do in the face of my apparent rejection of all of his advances towards me in terms of us having a relationship.  I concede the point. He kisses me.  I kiss him back.  We tear each other’s clothes off and it was an amazingly great night of rocking my world.

(As an aside, more men should be like him and think to say, when looking at a woman naked, “You look so amazing.  You have the hottest ass I’ve ever seen.  I love your body.  Etc. Etc. Etc.”  This would go a long way to men getting a lot more sex.  The key to this though is the man would actually have to mean it, as the woman would be able to immediately discern the bullshit if he didn’t).

Fast forward to morning.  I am tired.  I stayed up a lot of the night having sex with this man.  It was SO MUCH FUN!!   Perhaps that was due to the make-up sex aspect of all of this?

We agree as we both left my house that I am 100% fine with him having other women – I just want to know about it so I don’t look like an idiot.  He is incredulous that I am okay with this.  I reassure him that he has met the only woman he is probably ever going to meet that would be perfectly okay with this.  I tell him I’m not relationship material, so this kind of arrangement works really well for me.  Neither of us has to pretend anything anymore – we can just agree we really like each other and the sex is too good to give up.  He agrees with that.   He tells me that he doesn’t want to know if I have sex with other men.  I’m good with that.

I think a pretty good deal has been struck here.  For both of us.


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