I’m not sure when it happens, but there comes a time in any coupling when hearing about their sex life becomes kind of gross.  The same two people, when they first hook up, can sound hot:  Really?  You fucked her ass whilst fisting her pussy?  But as soon as they’re a “couple” the sex is less … well, sexy.

I know this.  And maybe this is one of the many, many reasons I’ve cringed when a friend hooked up with a guy to “seeing” a guy.  There’s something about some sort of stability that means “boring and gross.”

Not to make this legible syrup of ipecac, but the Viking and I have great fucking sex. And while it hurts to do so, I have to admit that the Viking and I are a couple.

He knows how I feel, that if things are working there’s no reason to put labels on things.  But even I have to admit that we are a couple.  “Boyfriend” is hard to say, especially since he’s no boy, and that sounds so trivial.  But I really dig him, and I’m pretty sure he really digs me.  And we live together.  And we’re going to make a major move together.

Yes, we are going to move.  Eventually.  It seems like it’s been so fucking long since we made the decision to move.  We are going to move.  I’m so looking forward to exploring a new city with someone I love.  The Viking is especially fun; we go out and do fun things together all the time.

And here’s where the gross stuff comes in:  We spend a lot of time together and seem to like it.  We have figured out that we don’t need to talk to each other all the time – there are podcasts and video games and work and correspondence to occupy our time – but we like just being in the vicinity of each other.  Yes, it is gross.

We are going to move.  We are.  The Viking’s been working in Chicago, and he even looked at a couple of apartments.  Two apartments which, as soon as we expressed interest, were sold.  We are looking to rent, not buy.  I suppose it’s good that we have good taste, but we already knew that.  At this point we’re willing to get a starter apartment in Chicago and then move to our ideal place, but we just want to fucking get to Chicago.

We’ve even been told by friends that we’re “so cute.”  I promise this was unsolicited.  I feel a bit dorky that we’ve elicited such comments.  Nonetheless, I am so fucking happy.  I’m worried that the other shoe is going to drop, but in the mean time things are pretty fucking fantastic.

So the other night the Viking and I were fucking.  I’d probably showered and then beckoned the Viking to “service me.”  He probably obliged; he always obliges.  He likes servicing me.  “Servicing me” isn’t all that difficult; it just means that I should be made to come.  I don’t “force” a guy to service me with only his tongue, or only his fingers, or only his cock.  No, no!  I allow – and encourage – the use of tongue, fingers, cock, and various and sundry toys to get me off.  A guy (or girl) should be able to use any of the tools available to get the job done.

When the job is done I’m quite satisfied.  One of the many, many things I like is to come and then to be fucked silly.  But it doesn’t always have to be in that order.

The other night the Viking and I “had relations.”  He went down on me.  He fingered me.  He fucked me.  I suggested – mid coitus – that he come not in me, as was usual, but on me.  He still seems so happy and a bit surprised when I suggest that.  I’m still so happy and a bit surprised when he takes me up on it.

Which he did.  He came on me.  Then he …

I swear.  True story.

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