I miss you. The flight went smoothly and my family is relatively sane, except Fran who’s having fits about Mom’s birthday being perfect. I guess I didn’t help matters by calling her Franny-Fat-Fanny, which after thirty-odd years still makes her yell at me. I’m sorry you couldn’t be here to see it.
This is what I’m thinking about you today. I’m remembering something I read once, about how 95% of sex scenes in movies show the couple having sex for the first time. I don’t know if they meant that number literally or were making it up to make a point. But I realized that I don’t get that. I know all these guys (women too, probably) who get bored doing it with the same person, who need a fresh body every few months or years to keep their attention. But I don’t get it. I’ve never gotten it. It seems so ridiculously obvious to me that sex gets better with time, not worse. It’s like playing the piano. You need to practice, for years. You can’t play the piano for a few months and then quit and switch to the tuba, and then quit that and play the saxophone for a while. Not if you’re going to be really good at it.
When I’m going down on you, for example.