In which I talk about how cats are plotting to ruin my sex life. Somehow. I don’t know.
Before we started dating, I’d basically resigned myself to an inevitable future as a crazy cat lady. It was a thing Bee and I used to discuss. We were both of the opinion that no-one would ever want to date either of us, so we were mentally planning to buy a bunch of cats each and live the rest of our lives descending into cat-related madness.
I’m in a relationship now. But I still love cats.
It’s possibly because cats are endlessly fascinating. I’m of the opinion that dogs are way easier to deduce than cats. If you look at a cat, you can never tell if it’s thinking about food or world domination.
Or, more likely, a combination of the two.
We’re both cat people. Which is good. And we’re both house-sitting in a house which comes with two rather curious specimens of cat-kind. One is prone to disappearing and one is prone to… well, just showing up wherever you are. Both of them like to scare you. Or even stare you out.
I mention the stare out thing because it’s made it a bit harder for us to have any sort of sexual liaison (well that, and my period suddenly appearing like that wild Pokemon you don’t want to encounter on the way to the Elite Four).
I know. It’s flipping silly to feel watched by a cat. I mean, it’s just a cat, right? Apart from a bite or a scratch, it can’t actually do much harm.
But still. Still. Still, I can’t help feeling a bit intruded upon by the cats. They’ve temporarily replaced the pigeons in the “animals who know most about our sex life” stakes (which I joked about at Eroticon, during Kristina Lloyd’s session). Ah well. I’m sure they won’t complain if we pet, feed and dote on them.
Still. I’d quite like to have a decent shag (or six) soon. God knows, it’s been too long.
(Ps : This marketh my 1000th post on this blog. Yay, huzzah and all that. Thank you to all the people who’ve read and keep reading this blog. It is truly appreciated and you are absolutely adored. Stick with me, I say.)