quizzical pussy

I got food poisoning over the weekend. Or I guess it could’ve been stomach flu. Either way, there was overmuch puking and misery.

I was at Laramy’s when it hit. Our New Year’s Eve/Day had been grand, involving a party with friends, video games and merriment, kissing at midnight (which tradition I had never participated in before, for whatever odd reason), and, upon our arrival home, the kind of amazing, three-orifice sex that seemed to augur well for the coming (no pun intended) year.

Then, Saturday dawned and brought with it what I can only assume was the most treacherous grilled cheese sandwich ever to grace a plate. The fallout wasn’t pretty. You’re actually not here to read the painstaking details of my digestive system’s overthrow, so I’ll stick to what’s relevant. I was completely bricked, to the point where I couldn’t drive myself home (I live over an hour of freeway driving away from Laramy) and had to stay over an extra, unplanned night.

This is the kind of situation I loathe. Of course I hate being acutely ill — everyone does. But specifically, visiting Laramy and suddenly surprise! trapping him with a sick and woebegone me is pretty much a nightmare. I hate hate hate putting anyone, much less someone I care about, in that position.  In my religion, if I had one, imposition is one of the seven deadly sins, along with being boring and driving like an asshat.

It’s sometimes hard for me to fight that “okay, I’ve gotten you off, so I guess I’ll just flee immediately before there’s any chance of me being in your way, if you could please hand me my pants” impulse after sex; many’s the time I’ve practically fallen all over myself trying to make sure I wasn’t overstaying my welcome. I consciously try to be a low-impact partner: never in the way, never a burden. I want to keep things light and fun and never box anyone in. This habit may be a throwback to my first, abusive relationship and trying hard not to do anything too noticeable, but instead recede into the background whenever possible, which was the surest way to avoid unpleasantness… but that’s just a theory. Like evolution.

This weekend, there was no alternative. Laramy was stuck with me, and my shuddering, groaning presence was quite noticeable. I was more than willing to try to stay out of his way as much as possible, but he wasn’t having any of it. He cuddled me, helped me to the bathroom, ran to get me ice cubes. If I’d had long enough hair he probably would’ve held it back for me. He also forbade me from apologizing for inconveniencing him or fretting about the possibility I might’ve passed something on to him (I don’t think I did, happily), which I didn’t observe very well at all. But he was perfectly sweet throughout everything, and even said he was glad that if I had to get sick I’d done it with him around to take care of me.

It wasn’t the way he or I wanted to pass the weekend, but it could’ve been worse, considering. Also, we had no sex in the midst of me feeling completely awful, but we fucked– gently– as soon as I was reasonably sure the worst was over. Twice.

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