Orgasms, love, and manly domesticity.

Yesterday's orgasm count: three, self-inflicted.

It does seem like my libido is back, which is nice to see. Apart from the orgasms mentioned above, I've been cheerfully fiddling away today, at one point getting myself to a very nice climax which must have lasted at least thirty seconds. Now, eighteen months ago, this would have actually been a bit disappointing, as I was routinely popping off one- and two-minute orgasms, but I find myself somewhat out of shape these days. And I think that I find it easier to orgasm with my beloved around, even if it's been a day or two since we last saw each other, because the memory of him and his pheromones is still fresh then. But upon parting, my "performance" has deteriorated, and I found myself just manageing the normal four- to eight-second orgasms, which was a bit frustrating. Which is why I am very pleased to see some recovery in that area. I do wonder whether it has something to do with my beloved returning in less than a month though, because we have both noticed that our "phantoms" (a sort of imaginary presence of each other we perceive when apart) are a lot more pronounced at the moment, and have been growing moreso with our impending reunion.

We spoke again on the phone today, which is always nice. I do like to reconnect with him, especially now, as we have crossed that threshold where we get really impatient to see each other again. I'm also looking at photos of him more frequently now, with the obligatory soppy expression on my face.

On a tangent, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a Man. At least, not the kind of Man that Mr Birmingham and Mr Flinthart would have me be in How to be a Man. I was having a flick through it again today, as it's a hilarious read, besides being so very informative. And while relationship-wise, I seemed to be a pretty adequate Man, I obviously wasn't in terms of keeping the kitchen clean. So with Messrs Birmingham and Flintart as my guides, I attacked the kitchen, armed with a scrapey sponge and some Jif detergent. I doubt it has received such a thorough clean since we even first moved in, to be quite frank. I am still unearthing interesting artefacts. But as long as I find no sentient life forms in the crack between the bench and the oven, it's all positive.

Perhaps, once I have finished cleaning the kitchen, I will be a Man. Except, you know, with breasts, a vagina, and a uterus. And without a penis and prostate and testicles and stuff.

Actually, I suspect it's my bedtime. I'm getting a bit silly. I must be tired.