I don't do that very often, for obvious reasons. But I think maybe I have the Hamthrax. My parents had the kids, and we did her idea of a fun night out, which amounted to Chinese take-out and a trip to a bar a town over so she could dance to a band. They were not good, but they were loud. I tried to dance, but I was heavily medicated and I can't figure out dancing anyway. I mostly just stood in front of her and stepped from side to side. I know she doesn't see it this way, but when we dance like that it feels like she should be dancing by herself. Her dancing has nothing to do with me; I have a hard time even getting her to hold my hands. I know I should just dance and forget the awkwardness, but it's hard in front of everyone when I don't know what I'm doing. And she can't really help me. She dances (this is her analogy) the way I write. If she wants to write anything of any length, she follows a formula and just tries to get through it, while I just sit down and make the words flow. I wanted to take dance lessons because I wanted to "learn how" to dance, but she doesn't have a "how." She just does it.
Anyway, we spent some time dancing . . . more or less . . . and some time sitting at the bar talking, which was more fun for me. We went home, I took more drugs, and we made each other hot tea (long story.) I took the tea upstairs and she was putting on her teddy. That can only mean one thing with her; she was sending up the flag.
And I was tempted. I still have that desperate feeling from time to time, like this is the last chance and if I don't take advantage I'll regret it over the coming sexless weeks . . . or months . . . or years . . .
But in the end, it was a bad idea and I knew it. I could hardly breathe, I'd probably have to blow my nose halfway through, my body ached and it just wasn't sexy in any way except that she was there and willing (although you should see her dance . . . that was sexy.) I didn't really say no, I just got into bed, snuggled up close to her, and gave her a kiss before I laid my head down and closed my eyes.
This morning I asked her if I'd disappointed her. I guess I should have known better than to think we've progressed quite that far; there was no disappointment for her, but she worried that she'd disappointed me. I guess it's good that we could talk about it. I actually feel pretty good about the whole thing today. We had a nice night of sleeping snuggled up close, and I really think if I'd tried to force my sickly body through sex it would have gotten awkward, ugly . . . maybe a little gross.
