Today's topic: You know you want it.
So Current Husband and I have just come off of the parental equivalent of a weekend at Cabo San Lucas - the children were at Grandma's, and if you closed your eyes and sipped your margarita and stood in front of a fan with a CD of ocean music playing, then by all means, Voy a tener otro, Jose.
On Wednesday I was getting ready to leave to have coffee with a friend, and put on a sort of flowy white shirt that always looks like a terrific beachy summer top in the store, and looks suspiciously like a maternity top or the Krispy Kreme Fan Club tunic at home. I walked into the dining room where CH was working, and said, "Does this top make me look pregnant?"
He finished typing his e-mail, surfed the Net for another moment, and then looked up. He looked me up and down, raised his eyebrows, and said, "You look like you want me to bend you over."
Perdon? This answer:
A) Gets you out of answering the question. If you tell me that the outfit I am wearing makes me look like I want nothing more than to be ravaged by you, it does not give the crucial information I need, such as:
- "Is my muffin top spilling out anywhere?"
- "Are the edges of my underwear forming permanent creases in the butt of these pants?"
- "Is there an extra boob roll present?"
B) It assumes I prefer to be bent over for ANYTHING, which honestly, I don't. Hello, knees of an Octogenarian here! Hips soon to follow! The only thing I like to be bent over is a sushi bar, and that is only to reach for my second cup of sake. However, I would like to see YOU bent over something - how about the garbage, or that pair of work shoes in the doorway everyone is tripping over?
C) This is actually a soliciation for some spontaneous sex. The chance of me actually putting down the keys and saying, "You're right. Do me like a dog in heat" are incredibly slim, and yet, you are willing to take that chance, even if it might piss me off. I appreciate your optimism, really I do. Someday, when I put on those capri pants that are a little snug in the trunk and I say, "Are my granny pants totally showing through these?" and you say, "You know you want me to tap that," I am going to take the fifteen minutes to peel those pants back down like a banana over my Spanx and then remove said panties and then the kids will come around the corner and scream "WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!?!" and we'll be late for the school function, but we'll both know in our heart of hearts that it was going to be THE BEST SEX WE'VE NEVER HAD.
D) Puts the ball in my court. Because if I grimace, or complain, then you can be affronted. "What? Why is that bad? Lots of women would LOVE it if their husbands said stuff like that to them!" Um, honey, WHAT stuff? You mean the part where after I ask if my stomach is visibly hanging below my hem you imply that I am begging you to bend me over and mate with me like lions on Animal Planet? My bad. You CLEARLY understand exactly what lots of women would love.
Now. Does this shirt make me look pregnant? Because there is a skinny vanilla latte and scone waiting for momma, and if you want me to play cheerleader to your quarterback later, I need you to reinforce my delusion that I am keeping my midlife weight gain from the world at large. I need you to back me up, not bend me over. Are we clear? Excellent. Now get your hand off my boob, I'm going to be late.
Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!