On My Knees

When I first fell in love with my husband I was 15 years old. I had just spent the entire day busting my ass, building a pig pen (yes, really) with his cousin down the road. I spent all day nailing planks and dreaming of ways to see my darling Boo, when suddenly, he materialized out of thin air.

The flirting began, and before you knew it, I was cussing him out and trying to kill him. I called him a variety of names and hurled a hammer at his head, all the while our parents sat yards away, planning our future.

Of course, as anyone who plays ball with me could tell you, I really couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, so my darling Boo's noggin was safe from flying carpentry tools. Boo is no idiot though, he beat a hasty retreat and disappeared. I didn't know whether to be heart broken or relieved.

Just when I was about to give in to my teenage angst, the young and foolish Boo returned on horseback and swept me into his arms for our first real kiss. Boo was a believer in grand gestures and romance.

Then he got married.

And suddenly his grand gestures entail standing in front of me when I am sitting on the couch or at the computer and whipping out Mr. Pickle and letting me know he has something for me to suck on.

Or, if I mention I have a sore throat, he always let's me know he has a cure.

Classy and romantic. How did I get so lucky?

Before he abandoned me left to go to work this last time, we got into an age old argument. You know, the one where he wants to know why, when I'm sitting on the couch next to him watching the evening news, I can't simply lean over and um, provide him with a hummer.

After all, it's always ready to stand at attention, and according to my husband, would make the news so much more gratifying.

As a journalist, I always tell him the news is not supposed to be gratifying, but informative.

This of course led into a discussion about whether hummers where a dating activity only, a form of foreplay or a sexual activity all on it's own. Because apparently, according to my darling hubs, it's been so long since he's received one that he is reverting back into a prepubescent boy, dreaming of his ninth grade teacher and wondering how soft a woman's mouth really is. This of course, is not the complete truth. But it has made for some interesting discussions with my girlfriends. Apparently, I'm not the only wife on the block with a husband who feels that particular need is not being met.

So, like any good journalist, I took my enquiring mind out on the road and started asking questions. I was determined to find out whether I was saddled with the horniest husband in the world or whether my sexual appetite was lacking.

Turns out, my appetite is just fine. And my husband is not the most concupiscent. That particular honor must be bestowed upon my best friend Roxylynn's husband. Lucky her.

I learned something when I was snooping around, asking my perverted questions. One, I learned that I really have no shame boundaries. I will ask anyone pretty much anything. Two, my dad blushes like a school girl when I teased him about being able to take out his teeth and give my mom a gummer. Thirdly, all men wish we were horny little vacuum cleaners. Doesn't matter how much or how often they get it, they always want more.

Kind of like eating Chinese food. You can eat until your stuffed to the gills, and then an hour later you discover you are still hungry.

Of course, I learned other things, like the fact that some women enjoy the salty biproduct of a successfully rendered job. And for those who don't, apparently eating pineapple can help. (The men eat the pineapple, the women just, well, suck.) I learned the etiquette of spit or swallow. Who knew there was such a thing. Turns out most men really don't care, as long as they have a woman in the nether regions willing to drool and get lock-jaw for him.

I also heard hummer horror stories. If I was writing for Penthouse, I'd tell you about some of them, but let's face it, I've already attracted enough pervs with the whole spit or swallow sentence.

Boo has decided my indifference to this particular playtime activity stems from our teenagedom, and my sexual insecurities as a young woman.

Me, I just think, I have better things in life to chew suck on.

But I promise darling, when you get home, I'll be down on my knees, waiting for you.

Of course, I'll be scrubbing my continually dirty floors, but I will be down on my knees...

The Magic Moment

Warning, this post is ridiculously long, and filled with inappropriate subject matter. Any Japanese exchange students who should not be reading this, please close the window, now. Thank you. Any one over 18 years old, feel free to continue.

Let's talk sex. No reason to be shy about the subject. We've all had it. Granted, some have had it more than others, but let's try not to get jealous, shall we?

Frankly, with all the talk of babies and impending births around the blogosphere, it's enough to get this momma into the mood. (It's hard to hear all the voices in my head, with the ticking from my biological clock getting louder every second...)

As a woman who has been in a relationship with the same man for almost 13 years, married for nine and half of those years, and best yet, have known her beloved Boo since she was in diapers, well, suffice it to say, there is little mystery left.

Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle that when we see each other naked we don't run screaming in the opposite direction.

To counteract this er, boredom, I have gone to great measures to keep things, um, up.

We've had couch sex (kinda loses something when you both fall off..), floor sex (but really, is rug burn worth it?), and counter top sex (not so fun for the tailbone, and more to the point, I prepare food for my children on that surface....). Over the years there hasn't been a surface area we haven't tried to christen.

(Please understand, dear internet, we were very young and stupid when we started bumping uglies. We had a lot more stamina a decade, and three children ago.)

But now, it's hard to hear the soft moans and little pants over top the creaking and cracking of our joints. Quite the aphrodisiac, I assure you.

So what is a happily married couple to do?

Keeping in mind, I am the world's biggest prude. (Sort of an oxymoron, with me putting my private bedroom moments out for the world to ridicule, I am aware.)

That effectively rules out, well, pretty much everything. Sure, we've tried toys and videos, but if it requires electricity of any sort it just seems not worth it. Who has time to find batteries or go and turn the damn video player on, because one of our darling kids put the remote in the trash bag when I wasn't looking.

We've tried dirty talk, but that just makes me laugh my ass off. Not quite the effect my hubs had in mind when he asked if I wanted to be his dirty girl. Apparently, my giggles have a some what wilting effect on parts of his anatomy.

We've done food. But rubbing each other with whipcream or chocolate just reminds each of us of dessert and instead of leading to passionate love making, we get sidetracked and end up in the kitchen making sundaes and then toddling off to bed with our full bellies and never finishing what we had meant to start in the first place.

There is an upside to this problem. (I think.) At least we still desire to do it. Perhaps not always with one another, but our libidos do exist. There hasn't been a need for pharmaceutical interventions just yet.

But, after thirteen years, it is hard to feel that passion, that spark, that certain excitement that new lovers experience. No, there have been too many fights, too many tears, too many times you have had to pass him a roll of toilet paper as he sits on the throne. There have been too many intimacies. Teeth picking, farting in bed and my personal favorite, child birthing.

(Of course, all that physical intimacy leads to emotional intimacy, but that's a post for another day.)

And as anyone in a relationship knows, sex is a big part of the equation. With out sex, you may as well be in a relationship with your brother. (Or your cousin, as many of Boo's relatives know...)

Boo and I have worked hard to plow through our sexual minefield. We overcame mismatched sex drives, lethargy, laziness and lately, his absences. It's sort of hard to get your groove on when he is in another town.

Now that the kids are older, it also brings in a new twist. How quiet can we do it? It's kind of like having sex in your bedroom while your parents are upstairs watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not that I'd ever know anything about that, of course.

When the kids were younger, if they barged in on us and asked why Daddy was on top of Mommy, we'd simply tell them we were wrestling. And then tell them to go watch The Lion King for the umpteenth time. (I never said I was the parent of the year.)

Now, if they barge in on us, they have a fairly good idea that we aren't, in fact, wrestling. Case in point, this summer, the hubs and I decided to get our groove on while the kids were outside, playing on the trampoline. We thought we would indulge in a little afternoon delight. Unbeknownst to us, the little buggers had snuck back in for a snack while we were, er, busy. (Thank God we locked the bedroom door.)

When we were all dressed and satisfied, my hubs wandered out to get a drink, when the kids surprised him in the kitchen. They asked what we were doing and why the bedroom door was locked, and Boo told them we were talking about Shalebug. (Sorry, dear angelboy. Your daddy is not a quick thinker...)

My darling Fric, is, however, quick on the uptake. She knew something was up. She loudly asked why, if we were talking about her departed brother, was mommy moaning and telling daddy that it felt so good.

Yea.

I avoided their prying eyes for the rest of the day. I might as well have just opened up the bedroom door and given the little dudes an x-rated show.

So sex can be a bit of a chore around these parts. But I like to think that practice will eventually make perfect. Or at least a good red wine can help.

We keep our doors closed, our mouths shut, and we just keep trying. Because if we stop trying to have sex, we stop trying to master our marriage.

But there was one thing we forgot.

Last night, in the heat of the moment, things were looking pretty good. (Wink, wink.) Just when that magic moment was going to happen for a certain husband who shall remain anonymous, tragedy struck.

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, became a little concerned for his mommy. And decided he should check on her. And as he passed by a certain anonymous husband's bare ass, he decided to do what any good doggie would do.

He gave it a sniff. And then he licked it.

Apparently, it was a bit of a mood killer. Who knew?

So if you happen to see a certain snarly-faced man, with a bad attitude roaming your street, do yourself a favour.

Don't ask him how his night went. And certainly don't inquire about his dog.

Because not everyone likes an ass-licker.

Warning: This Post is Not Pretty

I learned something new last night.

I've decided to impart this new wisdom to you, dear internet, in the hopes that you will take this knowledge and use it for personal growth and well, if nothing else, just a bit of trivia to carry about inside your head.

Imagine this, if you will: Sleeping in the buff, with a little dog on top of the covers, right next to you.

Naked boobs with rings dangling from the ends of said boobs. Puppy toenails in dire need of a trim.

Puppy nails catching on dangling hoops. Puppy excited and trying to extricate himself from a web of metal.

Instant wake up call.

Can we say "Ouch?"

Lesson learned. Please be advised.