Home

I was sitting on his lap, my hair cascading over my chest so you could barely make out my nipples, hard and erect between tendrils.

(Ew, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound like a Danielle Steel novel. I just remember looking down at my chest and seeing my nipples rising out of my hair and thinking that was one of the most erotic things I'd ever seen, but as they say, words can only go so far and I'm afraid my grasp on the art of erotic word play leaves much to be desired. You forgive me, right?)

"Where's home?" he asked.

This question causes me a slight degree of cognitive dissonance. Home? Is that where my parents live? Where I grew up? Where I spent the most time while growing up? Where I feel most comfortable? Where I spend most of my time?

Where do I spend most of my time?

I travel a lot. Moving is living. The less we move, the more comfortable we get, the less we experience. We settle into routines--the human being is a creature of habit. Our bodies call for some order. No matter what we're doing, or how crazy, if we do it enough, we will start to streamline it so it's easier. So it takes less time.

That's routine. And routine is the enemy of fantasy.

Mind you, I respect time management. I have my own little routines. I can't help it any more than you.

So I travel. I travel to jolt myself out of routine, to put myself in situations where I am not yet prepared. That's how I ride the edge of life again.

So--where's home? Home is where the heart is. Right here on your lap.