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Soak that in a second.So I've got it in my head that as soon as the eve of my 30th birthday passed, I no longer wanted sex. You know. I was old. Besides, without a reliable source of sexual activity, there was no true way to know for sure, just this thought in my head that once I turned 30, I'm supposed to drive slower, worried about finances more, and spend less time thinking about sex.As such, I went from an every-morning habit, to say, every otherish. You know, the motor needs less maintenance now. I'm 30.Enter new girl. She's this cute little thing that makes me laugh a lot. She's also got this completely slammin' body that well, that's none of you damned business. Anyway, because I'm 30, I now feel that with my self-imposed-decreased sex drive, it's time to uh, save it up. NO PROBLEM! I'll see her 3 times a week or so, for the next 6-8 months we'll be in that "sexual bliss" stage of the relationship where we basically preface and footnote every event with a good shag, so well, no need for routine maintenance. After that, we'll get into an argument about nose hair trimmings or used tampons or something, and we'll finally realize we're into a relationship; thus it'll be more important that I hang out with her friends at a poetry slam about Enchiladas than curl her toes EVERY night, so I'll be able to fill some gaps in here and there.Problem being? My over-thinking-neurotic-brain hasn't taken into account that we're both busy people, our schedules don't always line up, and I've now gone 6 days without sex.Day 1: It's not so bad today. I realize that it's more of a force of habit, much like a smoker with nothing to do. After deleting and throwing all forms of pornography (mostly a non-binding resolution that...it's not hard to get back with a few clicks and some simple math; I've been doing this computer security stuff for years, I'm an EXPERT at undeleting shit), I turn on PBS, and grab a book.Day 2: It's now becoming a bit of a pain to actually think about. I have to REMIND MYSELF not to. I turned on PBS again, but it was a documentary on the Washington Monument. Instead I read engineering manuals, and walked the dog a lot.Day 3: I'm now on the longest self-dry-spell since the great broken wrist of '92. That went 3 days, and ended when I finally learned one absolute fact: When under dire stress, the human being can suddenly become ambidextrous. Baggy pants are no match for a stiff breeze.Day 4: Miss perfect is out having drinks with friends. I tried to see if she'd need a ride home. She told me she had a ride. While I'm willing to post an anonymous CL post to the fact, we're not quite to the point where I can simply tell her it's a manipulative ploy to fuck her senseless.I think the dog knows what I'm going through, as he's nowhere in sight. I put on a shirt I wore this last weekend and it smelled just like her perfume. That shirt is now charcoal.Day 5: I'm about to crack. I'd quit this nonsense now and do the quickest data restore in modern history, but I'm seeing her TOMORROW. I have no idea how long it takes to reload the ole' wheel gun. The last thing I can do at this point is fizzle in the sack. Luckily, I'm on shift at the station tonight, so I'll be completely without privacy. Dog sent a note, something about a dangerous living situation; he sent me a link to a mormon website and told me he'd come home if I'd convert: http://www.nowscape.com/mormon/mormast2.htm I tried #11, but the owner/operator of the fishing tackle store kicked me out when I told him what they were for and voiced concerns about a nightcrawler's general toxicity.Day 6: I see her in 10 hours, 6 minutes, and 18, 17, no wait 16 seconds. I came into the office instead of working from home. I sit next to the HR department, where they're talking about who's been screwing who. I hate them. I miss the dog. I miss PBS. I miss my 20's.Somebody help me.