I would have entitled this "The Sexual Adventures of a Virginian Housewife" but let's face it, I'd most likely attract followers with definite fetishes and even they would be disappointed very quickly. My sexual escapades are very much like Ravel's Bolero: interesting, stimulating, but ultimately repetitive. I am not a "Desperate" Virginian Housewife. A lonely, isolated one, perhaps, but never desperate.
However, as I have no true girlfriends to dish and giggle with, this blog will stand as a virtual substitute.
Thoughts of the day:
It is said that all artists are ultimately narcissists. If this is true, I posit that being the lover of an artist is the consummate narcissist, because in every painting, every line, every note, s/he seeks to find their reflection. It is good for my soul that I am married to such a practical man, who is grounded in fact rather than fancy.
If you believe that thought has nothing to do with sex, you are like my husband. If you are like me, you might think otherwise. *Throws the cover back over the Looking Glass*
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