On Cuddling

As a rule, I don’t cuddle.

Call it a problem with intimacy, or a fear of commitment. Call it a lie, call it nonsense. Humans need contact; cuddles follow. But I just don’t enjoy it with my sexual partners.

Now, that’s not to say I haven’t cuddled or will never again cuddle. Really, I just don’t like to do it. This may upset some of you dear readers, but my perspective on cuddling is similar to my perspective on anal sex: I’ll do it, but it’s not pleasurable.

As an adult, I make compromises. Sometimes, cuddling (and, yes, anal sex) is a compromise. If it satisfies my partner, why shouldn’t I give that pleasure? And in turn, I receive pleasure in ways my partner may not himself enjoy because it’s a give-and-take system. You scratch mine if I scratch yours. Or, in the words of my favorite pixie indie rock vixen Jenny Lewis, “You gotta give a little love to get a little love.

Bananas CuddleTop 3 Reasons the Blushing Lush Refuses to Cuddle:

1. Sleep: how can I get any with you wrapped around me? I can feel the rise of your chest, air from your mouth or nose steadily lapping my shoulder or neck, and twitches and tics from your dreams throughout the course of the night. If you are a light sleeper, you know these to be true barriers.

2. Heat: I radiate it, you trap it, and then it’s all sweat and sex-stank from there on out. Open windows don’t help. I tend to burrow away from the cold, further into the nearest warm body, and then the heat trap returns. It’s a vicious cycle.

3. Discomfort: I have trouble getting to sleep with my body contorted in such a way, particularly as I tend to toss and turn frequently before falling into slumber. While this issue is probably a learning curve, I don’t care to experience many sleepless nights getting to the stage where a dead limb feels comfortable. Plus, I am concerned that my every move disturbs your sleep–because it sure as hell disturbs mine.

Cuddle Grammar Meme

In short, I need SPACE when I sleep. Sleeping parallel is preferred, and a hand here or there quite welcome. But don’t you dare wrap your arms or body around mine. It’s-just-too-close, ya dig?

I admit that platonic cuddling with close friends (male or female) can be and usually is quite lovely. I think the presence of  clothes helps, tbh. In the presence of partners and other conquests, clothes just come off and there’s not putting them back on. What kind of fun would that be?!

So, all that’s left to say is this: when I do cuddle, I am a Big Spoon Personality. No shocker there, I assure you. As an Amazon-boned woman, it’s hard to not dominate the bed…

 

Until we meet again,

The Blushing Lush

 

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Sunday Morning Stumps

Some lingering questions after a late night out on the town

1. I am tired of gay men telling me I’m a “cute lesbian”. I know they mean well and have good intentions, but it is exhausting to defend my sexuality. (The irony here is depressing.) Why is that women with short hair are assumed to be lesbians? Where does this cultural association come from?

2. Why is an influx of heterosexual men and women in predominately homosexual spaces so problematic?

3. Where, oh where, will I get my penis, vulva, and breast-shaped desserts now? Goodbye, Erotic Bakery. Your comestibles will be sorely missed.

4. Why do I constantly pursue men who play me, and why am I such a glutton for bad treatment from my lovers?

5. How hard is it really to text someone back, even if it’s to say “no” or “rain check”?

On libations

The consumption of alcohol happens to be a necessary factor in my pursuit of sexual relationships with men.

I am sure some may find my choices to be problematic, blending liquor and sex and emotion and passion together like a fearsome hurricane. I find it quite normative, and in line with most of my generation’s attitudes towards dating. Alcohol and dating go hand in hand; I go on dates in bars, I meet men at bars, and I happen to start every sexual relationship I’ve ever had in… you guessed it… a bar. There is a certain ease and comfort in dating in a bar. There is cultural currency there, and it absolutely informs my decisions over who I choose to date and how I date. I don’t date for love; I date to fuck. And bars happen to be great places for meeting single attractive males who might be interested in casual sex.

Dating and drinking have nothing to do with having any type of alcohol dependency. While I occasionally drink alone, I very rarely drink to excess even on “wild nights out”. I do not drink to get drunk. I rarely ever blackout from drinking. I like to socialize with alcohol, but by no means do I socialize exclusively with alcohol. I mostly drink in moderation. I drink because I want to, not because I need to. I feel no compulsion towards alcohol that would qualify my behavior as addictive.

I like the taste of certain beers, whiskeys, tequilas, and wine. I like cocktails. I appreciate the atmosphere of bars and lounges and clubs. I can take it or leave it–but I usually take it! I enjoy the craft of beer and mixology. I love the culture of booze: the writers, the celebrities, the urban legends, and sometimes even the politics. I prefer lagers and hefes over summer ales and IPAs. I drink stouts as appetizers and Irish coffees as desserts. I have discovered a love for jalapeno tequila cocktails–the tang of juice mixed with the searing, back of throat burn of the pepper. I drink whiskey with smashed ginger, ginger beer, ginger ale, on the rocks. If it’s an Irish whiskey and I’m feeling brazen, neat. Depending on the bar, I’ll experiment and try a drink special or branch out to a different brand of liquor. And unless it’s a Moscow Mule, I don’t ever drink vodka.

I like small, dark bars. I like the homey, wood paneled bars with cozy chairs and stools that remind me of the finest pubs in Dublin. I like the quirky or eccentric theme bars decorated to look like hunting or ski lodges, circuses, arcades, western saloons, forests. I like old local haunts pungent with the lingering scents of cigarettes and beer, perhaps fried food, and when you leave you can smell it all on your clothes.

Drinking, like sex, is all about the experience.  It’s important to have limits and boundaries; to separate what is okay from what is not okay, what feels safe from what feels scary or dangerous. It’s okay to stop. It’s okay to go. And sometimes you make a big mess and a fool of yourself, and you put your head back up the next day and pick up the pieces.

Writing Block(s)

Greetings, dear Reader!

On the eve of Spring, I am back to dust off this nascent blog and once again attempt to keep a writing routine. Can’t judge a girl for losing her focus when there are so many cocktails, bars, and boys to conquer, now can we? This wide world is full of distractions, and I am so easily distracted…

I must admit a certain focus has be lacking in my lush life, and so I will attempt once more to do something creative with consistency. Or, try to. For now. Though I do realize I had quite hardly started much. So, like the sexually inexperienced, my blog is starting and stopping and starting again with quite irregular rhythm–my b, y’all.

Now for some paperwork: I will, I SWEAR, continue the saga of the Winnebago. I couldn’t possibly leave you, dear Reader, hanging! You deserve to know how our flirtations progressed from bar to recreational vehicle… and trust me, it is quite worth the wait. I mean, I was serenaded. On the street. With poetry. **Sploosh**. (Am I right?)

But for now all I can spare is just a few photos of my lush life in action.  I am trying to be more sociable in 2014, and I’ll be damned if I don’t have at least a half dozen (or more!) stories to share because of it.

Why bother writing unless there’s something salacious to be writing about? There’s a reason the most notorious writers are drunks, addicts, and other unsavory types. They had terrible lives to share with the world! And boy, do I hope to add mine to that list. So without further ado, some pictures of a lush out on the town and fully committed to revelry:

Fresh blackberries in ginger whiskey with a splash of lime, courtesy of the always friendly bar-maids at Mars.

Fresh blackberries in ginger whiskey with a splash of lime, courtesy of the always friendly bar-maids at Mars.

Black lace, fire engine red skirt. #datenight

New photos up!

Hello lovely readers of the Internet.

Just a quick note to share that I’ve added a couple more photos to the Gallery roll. All the photos on the blog sidebar are also on view under the “See” tab from the main menu.

I’ve been digging through the archives, and given the most recent spat of unreasonable winter weather, I’ve pulled out a few pictures from last summer when all was sunshine and happiness. Lush life is best spent outdoors, and in the two-oh-six, there’s quite a lot of outdoors to see. Expect more soon, and perhaps I’ll include some of the more illicit images in there next time. I do wish Washington had a more lax container law…

Happy places are often woodsy places.

Happy places are often woodsy places.

Gallery launched!

Hello lovelies! I decided to launch a new feature on this here blog, as I do so love to experiment during wee hours of the night. See that sidebar over there on the right with all the links and stuff? Beneath a list of the blogs I follow (which are all quite marvelous, I must add), I’ve added a photo gallery. I hope all y’all good readers of the Internets will check it out and get a sense of how this lush plays, drinks, and generally bandies about town.

I like to take photos of the things I do and see from time to time–my city is nothing if not alive, so there may be something to that whole “Sleepless” thing.

Here’s a little preview:

Seattle, WA, The Baltic Room, Drag Queen

Classy dames in dresses

Objectified flannel n' tits

The blushing lush herself, in flannel (what else?)

I plan to put up several more photos over the course of the month, pulling from my archived photos and adding new images as adventures unfold.

Until next time,

The Blushing Lush