But when you’re in a committed relationship, where there’s been casual, hypothetical marriage talk? Two months is a long-ass time.
And it’s not like there hasn’t been opportunity. I have my own bedroom in the shared house with Ben, and Lance has his own apartment.
So how is it that we’re having less sex now than when we were living in the dorms and had to tie dental floss on the doorknob to warn our respective roommates not to come a-knockin’?
Well, whatever. Tonight that changes.
I’ve spent extra time on my makeup, and I’ll admit…I look awesome. The tight black tank top and jeans aren’t anything special, but they’re not meant to be.
It’s what’s underneath that is the real treat: a brand-new lingerie set that blows my shopping budget for, like, the next six months, but it’s worth it.
It’s red, lacy, and doing rather fantastic push-up things to my boobs, if I do say so myself.
I’m about to head out the door when I get a text from my friend Casey.
Bachelor in an hour? I’ve got popcorn….
For a half second, I’m tempted, because…The Bachelor.
But no. No. This is exactly how Lance and I got ourselves into this sexless mess…by not prioritizing our relationship. And it’s worth making time for, it really is.
I text her back. Headed over to Lance’s, but don’t you dare tell me who gets a rose. I’m watching later.
Her response is immediate. U sure? I have prosecco.
Damn. She knows I’m a sucker for sparkling wine.
I push through. Spent triple digits on lingerie. Gotta go blow someone’s mind.
Casey responds. Blow his mind, or blow his…
I respond only with a “…”
Because…maybe. It has been two months, after all.
I stop by Ben’s door and knock softly. Based on all his babbling about parties tonight, he’s probably taking a nap to gear up for…well, whatever he does at parties.
Still, I knock anyway, because I know he’ll want to know that I’m heading out. He’s kind of a stickler about me telling him when I’ll be gone all night, so he doesn’t have to worry about coming after me with a shotgun to defend my honor.
He’s cute.
“You there?” I whisper loudly.
Silence.
We each have a whiteboard on our doors for just these types of occasions (college-y, I know), and I scribble a note that I’ll be spending the night at Lance’s, and not to do it on my bed.
As an afterthought, I go back to my room, rummaging through my underwear drawer until I find the oversized beige PMS panties we’d discussed last week. I loop them over the corner of his whiteboard, knowing he’ll correctly interpret it as I mean it, seriously stay out of my bedroom.
Lance lives in the Pearl, a trendy district that’s a doable walk from my place, but considering my shoes—which, quite frankly, are awesome—I opt to drive over there, even though it’s very un-Oregonian to drive when I can walk.
I was born and raised in the Portland area, and I’m barely exaggerating when I say that my first words were cookie, Mama, and carbon emissions. Recycling isn’t so much an if you think of it so much as do-or-die, and the worst thing you can do in this city is honk at a bicyclist, because they’re saving the planet as you slowly kill it with your evil car. Or something.
Still, I feel only a twinge of guilt at my unnecessary drive to Lance’s. I have a Prius, thank you very much, and it’s like I said…my shoes are really rather fabulous. Leopard print ankle boots with just enough heel to be completely sexy.
Parking in the Pearl generally sucks, but I’m lucky, and a car—another Prius, natch—is pulling away from a prime spot just acros
s from Lance’s apartment.