After sex a couple of nights ago, I tried to slip seductively out of bed and instead rolled off the edge of the mattress, cracked my elbow on the dresser, and ate carpet (not a sexual euphemism).
It had been that kind of sex that started out with my husband crawling into bed and whispering into my ear, “It’s been a long time. I might’ve forgotten how,” and ended with me sporting a Bride of Frankenstein Beehive and a smile. It had been a long time. Life gets busy, yo. And then we do, I guess. And then I end up catching my fall with my face. Again, not a euphemism.
Down there on the floor, as I flipped myself over like some groaning, hobbled sex-for-sport turtle, I thought: Really glad this isn’t a first date.
Nothing from the top of the bed. No “you OK?” No “Where’d you go, sexiful playmate?” Nothing.
“Hello?” I call up.
Then I see this*
“Eight?” I ask.
“It was a ten until you got to the dismount.”
*recreated last night. He was so apprehensive. “It’s my first time on your blog, Anne.” he says.
“Are you OK with it?” I ask.
“……..sure.” He says, looking at his shoes for a moment before he can agree. This from the guy who was completely OK with google maps pajama pics