Carefree

So - I like it. I do. I like it hard, public, nasty and dirty. I like it with a touch of passion, a shitload of spice, some exhibitionism, and a lotta forbiddeness. I like it with Arab men, black men - very odd or very fine white men. I prefer it when I'm drunk, and have really no desire for it when I'm sober....and I don't really have a problem with that.
I dream about it the way I like it. The heat - the passion - the fire. I don't wanna talk about it, I just wanna do it. I had a dream like that last night - some guy I met on a beach while I was vacationing with Chris & his family. We snuck off and started rubbing and kissing and touching against the side of a little beachhouse - and when I got so wet that I thought my head was going to blow off, I stopped because I decided that I wanted to be in bed, so we snuck into a back bedrooom. Thinking back over it, I don't think we ever actually had sex - it was just the buildup to it that was so damn satisfying.
Once again - transience. If I'm only fucking you once - it doesn't really matter how well you do it, or if I wanna do it with you again - it's done. It's over - and I don't have to worry about trying to make it perfect or right or endlessly talking about what makes it better or different or what I like or what I don't or ANYTHING. It's just done.
And if I decide the next morning that I really never want to set eyes on you again - well, hell - I can do that too.
But what - just what if I think that I do want to see you again and instead I get cast aside like I say I can cast aside all of those others? That would suck - and that's something I never have to worry about being married - he can't just drop me because he doesn't want to see me again. We're stuck together, for good or for bad - for life. Well - he could drop me, and I could drop him - but, ya know - it's different now.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't married and sometimes I wish I was and until I can be all of one way or another I'm going to be confused at least half of the time.
And god knows, I'm so fucking sick of TALKING about shit - especially when I know that he's staying silent and withdrawn just to force me to talk. I'm not big on relationship style conversations - I'd much rather bring up a problem, work to a conclusion, and be done with it rather than having to rehash it over and over, and fucking over again. I have to build up the energy to talk. I have to gather myself together and build up the actual desire to sit down and listen to him babble on in his pseudo-intellectually superior matter about stuff I wouldn't even CARE about if it didn't matter to him - and actually force a bit of interest out of myself over it.
Maybe I don't like talking because I feel like I'm lying. The latest issue that we 'need' to talk about - that I know I'll have to bring up (mainly because I'm curious - I could really care less) is the fact that I've been home for *thinks* 5 days and we've yet to sleep in the same bed. *shrugs* Not that I really care, as I almost appreciate the fact that I haven't had to have sex with him yet, but at the same time it's odd. And even more odd is that fact that I really do care about his withdrawal - more in the way that I would care about a friend who suddenly stops hugging me when we greet each other than I would be expected to feel about a husband who normally doesn't come home until 2am and tells me he is surrounded by gorgeous women who hit on him all day and don't believe that he's married.
I wouldn't be hurt if he was cheating on me - I would be more relieved if anything. An easy out - a way to escape.
And see - I feel like a horrid horrid woman - a cold, unloving, unworthy of being married woman even thinking such things (much less having the ovaries to write them out) to say it - but it's true. And it's been that way since before we got married.
I downloaded the rest of my diary - everything before the great disappearance that is - and I think I'll take the computer home this weekend and read over it and see if I can remember what convinced me to marry him. And maybe I can remember some of the overwhelming love I apparently felt at one time - and maybe I can bring it back to life.
Maybe it's just that I was gone for so long - and everytime I called to talk to him, all he wanted to talk about was the Spot. And - I'm amazingly proud and supportive and shit of him, but really *shrugs* I don't care. And maybe that's the problem, at the very root of it all. I'm disconnected (you notice how I am focusing totally on me? because this is my shit, my issue, my problem and he just happens to be the poor soul who married me first) and I don't know if I really want to connect.
I've never had many friends for this very reason - it's HARD for me to care enough about someone to be truly interested in them. I'm a very only-child kinda person - on the fringe, very self-centered - yet generous as hell - just don't expect it to last forever. I make a fabulous friend, a wonderful host, and a craptastic wife.
And I don't know if I care enough to want to try to change.