02 Jul How One Couple Put Their Sex Life First. (Sorry Kids)
I met my friend Mistress Justine for lunch on Abbot Kinney in Venice on Friday. That’s not her real name, but it should be.
She and her husband, Raoul (also a pseudonym) have been married fifteen years. The last time we spoke Justine admitted their sex life had stagnated. They’d just gone through a major house remodel and two career remodels while raising two high-energy young children.
But as I looked up from my vegan menu I was blinded by the vision of a smoldering sex goddess walking through the door.
She wore a white column dress and sky-high white pumps that snapped closed with metal buckles. A black leather corset peeked from her décolletage.
“What happened to you?” I asked Justine. Had she been to dominatrix school? Begun a stripper apprenticeship? What in God’s name was going on here?
“You lost weight!” I accused.
She shrugged, “Maybe fifteen pounds.”
Maybe fifteen pounds? If my forty-something body lost fifteen pounds I’d take out an ad in the local paper. I’d tattoo the news to my forehead.
“How did you do it?” I breathed.
“Sex twice a day …” and the kicker, “with my husband.”
Momentarily I contemplated ditching our friendship. Sex twice a day with your own husband? In what universe does that happen?
Apparently it happens when a marital dry patch leaves you so parched that you consider sexting one of your colleagues. But because you care about your marriage and want it to be at the top of the good marriages heap, you first go home and tell your husband that you’re planning to sext one of your colleagues. This gets his attention and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get out of this slump.
So this happens:
You Nair the hair off his entire body, bypassing only eyebrows and what little hair is still left on his head, then he Nairs the hair off your entire body.
Then you put a deadbolt on your bedroom door so your children may not pass, as Gandalf forbade the Balrog.
You buy corsets instead of bras. He buys you a harness for your forty-sixth birthday. You send photographs of the Anthony Weiner variety to each other while you’re apart at work, all of which apparently leads to sex twice a day in real, not virtual, life.
I sat, mouth agape over my peach tea and bean-sprout burger.
I asked Mistress Justine if she and Raoul were swinging, thinking at this point anything might be possible. She emphatically said no. It wouldn’t work in her marriage and why would she want to do that when she has this?
She treated me to a smartphone photo of Raoul’s above-the-waist hairless torso. In return I bestowed the greatest compliment one married woman can give to another: “Raoul’s doable.”
“He is, isn’t he?” cooed Mistress Justine as if he were an adorable purse dog. “Oh, Henry’s doable too!” she assured me.
“Yes, he is.” I agreed, somewhat mollified after her gratuitous display of marital satisfaction.
I bid Mistress Justine adieu and watched a phalanx of men’s heads turn in the wake of her pheromones. I realized I had to step up my fucking game.
First order of business, install a lock on our bedroom door. Second order of business … I’ll just keep that one to myself. But if you happen to see me in an equine store trying bits in my mouth just look the other way.
Look the other way!
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