I told BadPickleGirl that I probably wouldn't write about what we were doing. That this damned ever-increasing respect for privacy would, most likely, cause me to censor myself to the point where there might not even be an entry about what we did.
I told her about how I'd gotten HotRedHead in trouble with my writing, and that I didn't want to risk anything like that happening with BadPickleGirl.
But she would hear none of that. She insisted that I could write whatever I wanted. That I should write what happened. She said some crap about journalistic responsibility I think.
So, last night, BadPickleGirl and I gave our tongues and our lips a real workout. On her new leather couch, with candlelight flickering and music playing softly, we tasted things we had longed to taste for a long time.
To be continued.