Wake Me Up When You Go-Go
I don't think it's strange that individuals need a little space for themselves once in a while.
Some couples are in each other's hair 24/7. If the guy goes for a run, the gal goes for a run. If the guy nods off and has a nap, the gal nods off and has a nap. If the guy farts, the gal ... OK ... maybe she doesn't fart, but she doesn't go "Ewwww, you stinkeroo you." At worst, she giggles.
Whatever the case may be, I confess to being a bit paranoid to the whole concept of being "occupied."
You see I have been occupied before, specifically on the morning-after of the night-before. Sure, it ended up a little messy, because when I told the not-so-much-the-girl-of-my-dreams that it was time to go, time to hit the road, time to skedaddle, she wasn't listening. Instead, she had slipped into my collectable Team Canada hockey sweater, proceeded to make French toast, and dripped syrup on my couch while she watched CNN. For all I could tell, she wasn't planning on going anywhere soon.
Clearly, there's no easy way to evict an unwanted house guest, especially after there has been a night of nuptial noshing and gnashing. Sometimes, a bout of hedonistic give-and-go stalls like an '79 Pinto, and the "go" part gets lost in translation somehow. Just when you expect your overnighter to find her way to the door, she appears to be ready to camp out for some time to come. In this particular case, I no sooner had the words, "Buh-bye, I'll call you," bubbling over my lips, when suddenly I noticed there was a set of rinsed-out red bra and panties hanging like victory flags on the shower curtain rod. That is not a good sign. That says, "We're freshening up for another day on the pretend marry-go-round."
Knowing that I was in trouble, I suggested that she accompany me to high mass at the local Catholic church. That seemed to work wonders, and before I knew it, she was blow-drying her unmentionables and excusing herself on behalf of a family outing, which she had forgotten about, but which she was required to attend. Just before she closed the door behind her, she mumbled something about saying a prayer for her. I never made the mass, but I did say a little prayer, thanking the Holy Triumvirate for my salvation.
Fortunately, after a number of these scenarios, I have enacted a "no sleep-over" policy. Late night guests are still welcome to determine the thread count of my Egyptian cotton sheets, but by midnight or thereabouts, the night of revelry must reach an end. I know. That sounds downright inhospitable, and though it's not always easy to convince a sleepy partner of passion that it's time for her to find her way home, well, it's just an attribute of the whole safe sex thing. I feel so much safer when I wake up alone.
I suppose that some of you will think me unromantic, maybe even a bit boorish. You may be right. Or maybe, it's more about having an epiphany of sorts. Maybe, I have yet to discover the one lady who will fit neatly under the covers, the one who understands romance is not built on need or desperation or simply occupying space. You know ... the one who quite willingly says, "I guess it's time for me to go," but who, as I watch her silhouette move through the dark, instils in me the perfect confidence to protest, "No, I never want you to go."
I don't think it's strange that individuals need a little space for themselves once in a while.
Some couples are in each other's hair 24/7. If the guy goes for a run, the gal goes for a run. If the guy nods off and has a nap, the gal nods off and has a nap. If the guy farts, the gal ... OK ... maybe she doesn't fart, but she doesn't go "Ewwww, you stinkeroo you." At worst, she giggles.
Whatever the case may be, I confess to being a bit paranoid to the whole concept of being "occupied."
You see I have been occupied before, specifically on the morning-after of the night-before. Sure, it ended up a little messy, because when I told the not-so-much-the-girl-of-my-dreams that it was time to go, time to hit the road, time to skedaddle, she wasn't listening. Instead, she had slipped into my collectable Team Canada hockey sweater, proceeded to make French toast, and dripped syrup on my couch while she watched CNN. For all I could tell, she wasn't planning on going anywhere soon.
Clearly, there's no easy way to evict an unwanted house guest, especially after there has been a night of nuptial noshing and gnashing. Sometimes, a bout of hedonistic give-and-go stalls like an '79 Pinto, and the "go" part gets lost in translation somehow. Just when you expect your overnighter to find her way to the door, she appears to be ready to camp out for some time to come. In this particular case, I no sooner had the words, "Buh-bye, I'll call you," bubbling over my lips, when suddenly I noticed there was a set of rinsed-out red bra and panties hanging like victory flags on the shower curtain rod. That is not a good sign. That says, "We're freshening up for another day on the pretend marry-go-round."
Knowing that I was in trouble, I suggested that she accompany me to high mass at the local Catholic church. That seemed to work wonders, and before I knew it, she was blow-drying her unmentionables and excusing herself on behalf of a family outing, which she had forgotten about, but which she was required to attend. Just before she closed the door behind her, she mumbled something about saying a prayer for her. I never made the mass, but I did say a little prayer, thanking the Holy Triumvirate for my salvation.
Fortunately, after a number of these scenarios, I have enacted a "no sleep-over" policy. Late night guests are still welcome to determine the thread count of my Egyptian cotton sheets, but by midnight or thereabouts, the night of revelry must reach an end. I know. That sounds downright inhospitable, and though it's not always easy to convince a sleepy partner of passion that it's time for her to find her way home, well, it's just an attribute of the whole safe sex thing. I feel so much safer when I wake up alone.
I suppose that some of you will think me unromantic, maybe even a bit boorish. You may be right. Or maybe, it's more about having an epiphany of sorts. Maybe, I have yet to discover the one lady who will fit neatly under the covers, the one who understands romance is not built on need or desperation or simply occupying space. You know ... the one who quite willingly says, "I guess it's time for me to go," but who, as I watch her silhouette move through the dark, instils in me the perfect confidence to protest, "No, I never want you to go."
