Whatever doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger

This is supposed to be a blog about fucking. But sometimes it's about not fucking. That’s how it goes today.

We take a trip out of town. We’re going to drive, but River asks me to check the train schedule. Neither of us is looking forward to the long drive there and back. And the train schedule works out. But I was looking forward to hours of talking together without an audience. And another thing. “I was going to try to convince you to pull off the road for a while.”

We have a nice trip to our destination. It’s River’s trip. I’m proud to be with her. We had a nice fashion show, picking out what she was going to wear. And now we’re having an adventure together. On the way we’re nice and snuggly, each of us getting to be in a world of our own for a while, and getting to be in our world together. Lots of sweet kissing. In sunny spots. In tunnels. Whenever the mood hits one of us. And it hits often.

As always, she’s irresistible. It’s her curse. Or my curse. I see what I can get away with, feeling her through her skirt, my hand hiddden by her book. Not much, and she doesn’t help. I’m always asking River if she wants company when she uses the bathroom. I’m not entirely serious. But I am probing her comfort zone. And she’s feeling some pressure I certainly don’t intend. “I will not have sex in a train bathroom.” I can’t blame her. “Where would you?” “The back of the car.” She’s turned that down numerous times. But she sounds serious. I cleaned the car a few days ago, and that’s one of her issues.

The train arrives at our destination with its invariable lateness. We have no time for lunch before we have to do what we came to do. We get on the bus. It’s empty. The only people with a reason to get on this bus are train passengers taking it into town. We are the only two. It’s not leaving for ten minutes, and the driver has gone into the station. “Would you do it on a bus?” She gives it serious consideration. Looking around the bus. Looking out the windows. Noticing a big flat seat cushion. And it’s a clean bus. “You can turn around and keep a lookout through the window, while I . . .” Can I do it? I kneel on the seat beside her, unzip, and pull my cock out. I wish it were hard. A limp dick just isn’t exciting. To me, anyway. The erectile dysfunction at work. “You flashed me on a public bus.” That may be the first time I’ve seriously flashed her. “I think you’ve done it before. But not for a long time.” I put it away, the driver comes back, and the bus pulls out. When I notice the many security camera domes on the ceiling I give them a friendly wave.

We do what we came for. I’m proud as all get-out. River is sweet.

On the trip home I’m more subdued. I’ve made more flirty men’s room advances in town. And women’s. I think she knows that by now it’s just a running gag, and she’s even joked back, but I know my suggestions can get irritating, and she’s practically promised herself in the back of the car and I don’t want to go overboard and ruin the opportunity. It would be a sweet and adventurous end to a sweet and adventurous day together. The car is clean. It’s been three days, River’s preferred interval. We left the car in a titilating spot by the road. The stars are aligning for it. I leave the matter in her hands, where it belongs.

Again the train arrives late. But only twenty minutes this time. We walk to our car, parked on the road outside the station parking lot. We get in. “The back of the car?” Has she forgotten? Was she serious? Did she mean today? But she doesn’t tease me like that. “Too cold.” “The car has a heater.” She’s already started the car and we’re pulling away. “We’re late. The friend watching the kids has school in the morning.” As seems to happen so often when the stars are aligning, River has a list of reasons why not. I’m more interested in finding ways to make it work. Like using the heater. But the opportunity evaporates. I have left it in her hands and it has slipped through my fingers.

She was serious about the back of the car. She even agrees it was parked in an excellent spot. She apologizes. “I wonder how I can make it up to you.” I already have some suggestions. But moments like that can’t be manufactured. And I’m not a scorekeeper. “You already have.”

But then. “On a scale of 1 to 10 for fun, you’re about a 3. On a good day.” I can’t believe I said that. That’s no way to negotiate. It’s pure backlash. We get a bit argumentative and rehash some issues I’m still trying to heal from and come to terms with. River thinks I should have let go of them by now. I would if I knew how. None of my coping strategies seems to work out. Trying to have adventurous sex is one of them. Experience tells us it will be a few days before we’ve worked things out and have the right comfort level to be sexually intimate again. Naked bedtime snuggles, yes. Shower together, yes. Sex, not yet.

I even suggest post-confrontational sex, but neither of us thinks that’s a good idea. Not a good dynamic. Not our way.

I thank River for helping me get my feelings somewhat more sorted. Again. At her expense. Again. “And how can I help you?” “I don’t know. But I’ll tell you when I do.” I may have to remind her.

I feel terrible. It was her day and I’ve hijacked it.

But whatever doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.