Has it Really Been THAT Long?
Here’s the scene: You and your hubby/partner are experiencing what we in the marriage racket call a Dry Spell—i.e., there has been no coitus, fellatio, cunnilingus, analingus, or Charlie Mingus in some time.
You know the drill: The kids all came down with the Explosive Asian Stomach flu and the two of you spend two weeks cleaning up stinky projectiles from above and below—then take turns praying to the porcelain God when you finally catch it yourselves. Needless to say, there isn’t much time or motivation to get down and dirty with a mop in your hand and hubby’s head in the toilet. Then, because Mother Nature has such a profound sense of humor, Aunt Flow comes to visit, which puts you off your game for another five to seven days. To top it all off, your husband starts working late to make up for taking all that time off when everyone was up-chuck-pooing, so the only time you actually see him is through half-lidded eyes when he crawls into bed late at night, dead tired, and crawls back out the next morning for a repeat performance. Before you know it, a month (or more) has passed since you’ve seen each other naked. WTF? And wherefore art thou, F?
You, the good woman/wife/mom/world-class-MILF, are understandably and demonstrably frustrated, horny, and ready to get your fuck on. It is late at night; hubby/partner/man-creature has just walked in the door after pulling a double-shift. What do you do?
a. Start crying because you’re sure the reason you haven’t had sex lately is that he isn’t attracted to you anymore.
b. Start crying because you’re sure the reason you haven’t had sex lately is that he is having an affair.
c. Grab him by that fugly tie (the one covered with Barneys that the kids gave him for Father’s Day), throw his ass down on the bed, and, slipping into your best Queen Latifah voice, serenade him with “When You’re Good to Mama”.
If you guessed either a. or b., I heartily suggest you procure two items posthaste:
• a reliable vibrator
• a reliable divorce attorney
because that’s about all the action you’re gonna be getting. Making him feel inadequate/bad/guilty is generally not the best way to get some—unless you subscribe to the old French movie technique of belittling one’s partner until they start tearing their clothes off…But that’s probably just a French thing.
Granted, option c. isn’t always the best choice, either—after all, if you accidentally asphyxiate your partner, there will be no sexay-time. Unless you’re a zombie and are waiting to eat his brains, of course.
After all, life tends to be pretty busy—as a result, it’s easy to fall into the habit of putting sex last on the to-do list. And after umpteen days of no sex, neither of you has the energy or magical potion to jump-start things (and mimosas do not count). Umpteen days later, the pink elephant of Not Having Sex enters the home and takes up semi-permanent residence. And as commonly occurs with the presence of pink elephants, nobody wants to talk about it, out of guilt, shame, or whatever HGTV’s got on tonight. And that’s assuming it doesn’t turn into all-out passive-aggressive warfare. Which it probably will—and that’s just peanuts to the elephant.
So what DO you do when you find yourselves in a sexual Sahara?
You know the drill: The kids all came down with the Explosive Asian Stomach flu and the two of you spend two weeks cleaning up stinky projectiles from above and below—then take turns praying to the porcelain God when you finally catch it yourselves. Needless to say, there isn’t much time or motivation to get down and dirty with a mop in your hand and hubby’s head in the toilet. Then, because Mother Nature has such a profound sense of humor, Aunt Flow comes to visit, which puts you off your game for another five to seven days. To top it all off, your husband starts working late to make up for taking all that time off when everyone was up-chuck-pooing, so the only time you actually see him is through half-lidded eyes when he crawls into bed late at night, dead tired, and crawls back out the next morning for a repeat performance. Before you know it, a month (or more) has passed since you’ve seen each other naked. WTF? And wherefore art thou, F?
You, the good woman/wife/mom/world-class-MILF, are understandably and demonstrably frustrated, horny, and ready to get your fuck on. It is late at night; hubby/partner/man-creature has just walked in the door after pulling a double-shift. What do you do?
a. Start crying because you’re sure the reason you haven’t had sex lately is that he isn’t attracted to you anymore.
b. Start crying because you’re sure the reason you haven’t had sex lately is that he is having an affair.
c. Grab him by that fugly tie (the one covered with Barneys that the kids gave him for Father’s Day), throw his ass down on the bed, and, slipping into your best Queen Latifah voice, serenade him with “When You’re Good to Mama”.
If you guessed either a. or b., I heartily suggest you procure two items posthaste:
• a reliable vibrator
• a reliable divorce attorney
because that’s about all the action you’re gonna be getting. Making him feel inadequate/bad/guilty is generally not the best way to get some—unless you subscribe to the old French movie technique of belittling one’s partner until they start tearing their clothes off…But that’s probably just a French thing.
Granted, option c. isn’t always the best choice, either—after all, if you accidentally asphyxiate your partner, there will be no sexay-time. Unless you’re a zombie and are waiting to eat his brains, of course.
After all, life tends to be pretty busy—as a result, it’s easy to fall into the habit of putting sex last on the to-do list. And after umpteen days of no sex, neither of you has the energy or magical potion to jump-start things (and mimosas do not count). Umpteen days later, the pink elephant of Not Having Sex enters the home and takes up semi-permanent residence. And as commonly occurs with the presence of pink elephants, nobody wants to talk about it, out of guilt, shame, or whatever HGTV’s got on tonight. And that’s assuming it doesn’t turn into all-out passive-aggressive warfare. Which it probably will—and that’s just peanuts to the elephant.
So what DO you do when you find yourselves in a sexual Sahara?
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