The Secret Confessions of a Horny House Wife

I spoke with Morty on the phone again today.  This was telephone conversation number three.   I like him, and I’m not just saying that because he’s reading this.  Hands-down, without any doubt, I am having the very best cyber-sex with him that I have ever had with anyone.  He is at least as sick as I am. 

We live on opposite coasts, and I can’t help thinking that if he were here, there would be no Mike or Detective Curt in the picture.  But to what extent am I idealizing him because of his geographic unattainability? 

Here’s another thing.  I cringe to even type it, but I keep having fleetingly romantic thoughts about him.  Every time I do, Mr. C,in his three-piece suit, with his briefcase, mustache, and handsome, serious expression, pops into my head with his excellent, terrifying description of the possible danger of having a relationship with a reader.  ”This blog, my girl,” he tells me for the fiftieth time in his deep, British voice, ”is a blueprint for misuse” for any suitor of mine.

“I know,” I tell him.  “You are right.”  

Constance affectionately bats her eyelashes at me.  “Sweetie,” she tells me, “we just want you to wise about all this.”  I give her a hug and tell her I will be.  And yet…

♥♥♥

It’s funny that things with Detective Curt have reignited recently.  In so many ways, that relationship was the polar opposite of this one with Morty.  All of my feelings for and thoughts about Detective Curt were completely veiled to him, whereas Morty turns on his computer a couple of days each week and is confronted with my emotional-sexual diarrhea (or gripping, raw self-exploration, depending on your taste in blogs).

Will it all scare him away?  Will it give him the perfect opportunity to abuse my tender heart and eager loins? 

Or, doesn’t it matter?  Maybe what is important here is not Morty and his reactions, but me and my actions.  I suppose it’s progress that I’m making the choice to own and own up to my feelings and desires, and that I am verbalizing them, not only to thousands of blogosphere strangers, but to a man I like, which is actually even scarier. 

How’s that for gripping, raw, self-exploration?  (Or emotional-sexual diarrhea, depending on your taste in blogs…)

♥, HH