A Medicinal Blow Job in Winslow, Arizona

I flew to Phoenix this past week, and then drove back home with Sir. In between there was a lot of…stuff. Family stuff (his), trying to be a good partner stuff (mine) and simply existing-in-my-head stuff. It was a l-o-o-n-g drive, but I didn’t want him to take it alone, and besides, I was selfishly glad to spend three whole days cooped up in a car with him.

I’m crazy like that.

It was, actually, really enjoyable. Turns out we do road trips well together, even when it’s not the happy good times of vacation. We traded off driving (him much more than me) and talking (me much more than him) and listening to the radio or podcasts. I listened to my audiobooks when I drove so he could sleep, and forgot to read my book when it was my turn because I wanted to be there, with him.

And promptly fell asleep. Because that’s what I do in cars.

We took an ill-advised (by me) detour through Flagstaff, Arizona, because it’s one of my favorite places on Earth. Ill-advised because it got dark before I could show him the towering ponderosas that I love, or share twisty Hwy 89a with him. But when we pried ourselves out of the vehicle in the cold mountain air (no coats, because Phoenix), and I breathed that crisp piney air, it still felt like it was the right thing to do. A positive thing to do.

And then that night we pulled into Winslow, Arizona. What can I say, I’m an Eagles fan (remember who I rooted for in the Super Bowl?) and the notion of staying in Winslow, Arizona tickled the both of us.

I’ve had a pinched nerve in my neck for several weeks now, and the long days of travel had exacerbated it. When we crawled into bed that night, exhausted but weirdly wired, I joked with him about Adam telling me, “You know what the cure for a sore throat is, don’t you?” and leering at me suggestively. “I mean, he’s not wrong,” I said. And leered at K. We were laying face to face the way we do for a little while before I turn over for sleep and we do big spoon/little spoon.

I was suddenly not very sleepy.

“I mean, throat/neck, same/same, right?” I said, and then I gave him a push onto his back so I could see if it worked. For science’s sake. I babbled on about alternative therapies and the Eagles and some other stuff until K told me to shut up and put my mouth to better use than making words (or something to that effect.)

And that’s how I ended up giving a (purely medicinal) blow job in Winslow, Arizona.

I feel like the there needs to be a line added to that song somewhere.