I experienced 3 moments of pure pleasure on Tuesday afternoon.  None of them took more than 20 minutes each.  For nearly 2 weeks I’ve been frustrated and sick at my stomach with stress.  Sinking into a morass of depression there are times I literally panicked, taking xanex for the first time in months.  I kept getting one-two punches of disappointment and could feel myself spiraling away from solid ground.  Repeating, “This too shall pass,” I focused on baby steps to keep moving forward.  Tuesday night felt like coming up for air thanks to this particular trine of gratification hitting me like a perfect storm.   In this order – I ate tacos, had sex, and took a crap. 

Don’t discount the tacos.  As food goes, the carnitas at Streamline Tavern in Lower Queen Anne are the closest thing I’ve found to good home cooking in Seattle.  I know there are endless spots for so-called foodies to explore and rate on their apps but I don’t pay much attention.  Good food is as common or rare as you make it.  My idea of fine dining is any meal I didn’t have to prepare myself and don’t have to clean up.  A simple pleasure I enjoy even more when it’s served to me in a basket allowing me to minimize the consequences of unladylike consumption.  Wipe myself and the counter down before wadding my mess up into a compostable paper ball.  My favorite type of meal.

After the tacos I hopped on a bus to meet my booty call.  Despite insinuations and salacious blog entries, I don’t actually get laid that often.  I don’t really want to.  Initial chemistry can spur some late-night make outs and getting each other off a few days in a row.  Once that wears off I usually don’t crave sex more than two or three times a week.  Don’t get it twisted, I still have orgasms every day.  I just don’t need another person every single time.  I’d feel sorry for someone who did.  Sounds exhausting.  So if casual sex between two consenting adults without a strong emotional bond is slutty, I guess I’m a slut.

Just any sex wouldn’t have lifted my mood like this.  It wasn’t mind-blowing sex that makes me reevaluate my stance on monogamy.  The right amount of tender and aggressive made this the perfect sex for right now.  My partner is an attractive, well-mannered person that spent an appropriate amount of time making sure I orgasmed.  He didn’t get me off super hard but I can still feel the sensation of his tongue stroking me.  I relish the feeling of grinding my pelvis against his and appreciate the intensity of his resulting orgasm.  Once we were done relaxing he gave me a ride back to my apartment.  That’s good sex, in a nutshell.

For the third part of this triple crown I might have to explain some things.  I’d like to believe everyone knows how sensationally gratifying a good number two can be.  Then I remind myself some women don’t experience orgasms until their 30s.  Thanks to my fragile stomach condition and generally poor nutrition, I didn’t eat very regularly during this month.  One of the consequences is irregular intestinal issues.  I trust my gut to know when I feel right, literally and figuratively.  For me, nothing signals the end of feeling bad like a big solid dump.

The spurt of vigorous sex must have knocked something loose because right after I got home I shat out what must have been 10 pounds of crap.  It felt like I’d removed a kettlebell from my rear end.  Freud already pointed out the connection between pooping and sexual gratification, so don’t act so grossed out.  The experience is universal and only gets better when it feels like you farted out a 6 inch cork.  I couldn’t help but consider how glad I am my booty call isn’t better at getting me off.  Crapping at his house would have taken all the joy out of it.