A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All
Is it me, or are the libidos of men and women totally incompatible? I really think Ellen and Portia are on to something here. Not the least of which being that their bathroom is probably so easy to clean.
I remember hearing once that men reach their sexual prime in their late teens but that women don’t reach theirs until like their 40s. What the fuck kind of intelligent design is that? It seems slightly misogynistic. Like God said, “Well, I don’t want women to want sex all the time when they should be busy taking care of their families. I know, I’ll just delay their sexual prime so they can propagate first, play later.” Clearly God was not taking into account the fact that by the time we are done with all that breeding all our fun parts are too stretched out and ugly to feel good about sharing them with anyone else (at least with the lights on).
I’m only 38, so I keep telling my husband to wait for it….his time is coming. Of course by then, he’ll be so old that he’ll need to take Viagra and have his doctor on speed-dial in case he gets a perma-bone. But while we are both patiently waiting for my prime to get here, why oh why does he always seem to want sex at the precise moment when it is the last thing on earth I’d rather do. OK, true, that is like 99% of the time. But come on. Gimme a break, dude. When I begged you to get that vasectomy and promised you spontaneous wild sex wherever and whenever you wanted, I had my fingers crossed behind my back.
Here, I’ll give you an example. Husband gets home from work the other day all sexed up and raring to go (must be that sexy voice of Terri Gross on NPR). His timing could not have been worse. Unbeknownst to him, I had received my monthly visitor earlier that day. You know, Aunt Flo. Mr. Menstrual. The Curse. Paul Revere Riding the Cotton Pony. I’m bloated, crampy, pimply, gassy, and slightly inebriated. But Mr. Twenty-Five-Years-Past-His-Prime doesn’t seem to notice all the warning signs and nuzzles up to me hoping for a little slap and tickle. I say, “Sorry hon. Can’t. Got my period today.” Oh the look. You would think I had said that I just spent his retirement fund on another batch of Fat Burning Soap from QVC. To say he was disappointed would be an understatement. All I wanted was my box of wine, a heating pad, and whichever Meredith Baxter Burney movie was playing on Lifetime TV. I was also hoping he wouldn’t then ask for a 68: “You do me and I’ll owe you one.” Luckily for me, he got on the Internet instead. Hallelujah for free porn.
If he was my gorgeous lesbian life partner instead, we’d be on the same cycle, sharing an institutional-sized box of Tampons from Costco, watching Lifetime together, guilt free. But then, who would mow the lawn and grill the steaks? I guess I’ll keep him. And here’s hoping for that sexual prime to get here sooner than later.
Hi, I'm Iris. I'm a suburban hostage with excessive facial hair and a penchant for boxed wine. Sometimes I feel like an invisible vessel for grandchildren and PTA donations. I take pictures of my dog's poop. Welcome to my blog.
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