Why oh why had I ever stopped doing this–was I crazy? Oh yes, just there. There. There. That’s it. Oh, he’s so hard now. If I could have manoeuvred on top of him I would have done, but fuck it, I was doing just fine where I was. Yes. Yes. There. Oh my…SWAT!
And this time it was accompanied by one open eye.
‘Honey, what are you doing?’ he murmured sleepily.
Now, call me picky, but there was a time when I wouldn’t have had to draw him a diagram.
I adopted my sultriest look, threw one tit over my shoulder (flexible tits are one of the benefits/drawbacks of two years of breastfeeding) and leaned down to kiss him.
‘I’m playing with your cock while whipping myself into an orgasmic frenzy,’ I whispered playfully.
Okay, so this is when, if it were a movie, he would open his eyes, smile, run his finger gently down my face and whisper that he loved me–before proceeding to bend me over the back of the couch and roger me until I screamed in orgasmic delight. Then I’d flop into his arms, satisfied and exhausted, content in the knowledge that I’d be walking like a cowboy for the next week.
Sadly, it wasn’t a movie. It was a three-minute commercial for the merits of chastity and abstention.
Groggily, he removed my hand from his nethers, turning his head to kiss my belly. ‘I love you, you mad woman,’ he whispered.
I could have burst with happiness. Right up until he rolled over onto his other side so that I could only see the back of his head and murmured, ‘Babe, I’m too tired. But you go on ahead. Knock yourself out.’
Who said romance was dead?
I peeked at the TV screen to see that Farmer Giles and the milkmaid slut were indeed still on course to shag until the cows came home. I flicked off the telly, as deflated as a certain part of my husband’s anatomy. I’d been rejected. Knocked back. Dizzied. Dinged. And I didn’t like it one little bit.
Over the next few days I couldn’t get it out of my head. I drew up a list of reasons for the collapse of our sex life:
1 Mark works far too hard in a very high-pressured job.
2 We have two young children.
3 He’s always tired.
4 I’m always tired.
5 We never go out as a couple and so have disconnected from each other.
6 I make no effort whatsoever with my appearance any more.
7 He’s stopped seeing me as a sexy woman.
8 I only wear fabrics that are washable at 40 degrees and dryable on a radiator.
9 The kids are always in our bed.
10 I couldn’t find my make-up bag if my life depended on it.
11 We never get a chance to really talk.
12 Don’t think he’d want to anyway.
13 I never flatter him.
14 He never flatters me.
15 My bras are all grey and overstretched.
16 When we met I was wild, exciting, unpredictable and horny.
17 Now I confuse porn with a naturist documentary.
18 When we met he was sexy, fun, interesting and horny.
19 Now he confuses a wank with a mosquito.
It was quite obvious, really. Somewhere in the midst of all the stress, infertility, pregnancy, babies, financial constraints and daily monotony we’d lost that spark. Hell, we’d lost the whole bloody blowtorch.
That night when he came home for dinner, I was a woman transformed. I had clean hair. I was wearing make-up. I’d alerted Friends of the Earth that a forest was being eradicated before shaving my bikini line. I was wearing tight, sexy jeans and a low-cut sexy top (black, silk, borrowed from Carol, and definitely not dryable on a radiator). The lights were dimmed. The candles were lit. I’d prepared a meal without the aid of a microwave and the kids were next door at Kate’s house.
‘What’s all this?’ he said with a grin when he finally got in just after eight. I’d forgotten how handsome he was at the end of a long day. His dark brown hair was ruffled, his face all rugged and stubbly. His green eyes, squinting slightly through tiredness, had the effect of making him look sultry. His tie was loose. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. I could have climbed on top of him right there in the hallway just like the old days.
Why had it been so long since I noticed all of this?
Perhaps because normally the minute he walked in the door I thrust a malodorous baby and a nappy in his direction, then raced back in to other child who was in his bed, screaming the place down because his mother had dared to leave the room in the middle of a story about three little pigs under house arrest.
I did my very best pout–the one that I hoped made me look like Angelina Jolie, but was probably a bit nearer a puffer fish who’s just been smacked in the mouth.
‘You, my big stud, are going to be pampered, preened and fussed over. I’ve made you a gorgeous meal. There’s wine, there’s food and there’s romance. And in return, all you have to do is shag me senseless. What do you think?’
Was it my imagination or did he hesitate slightly?
He tossed his jacket, pressed me up against the kitchen wall and kissed me like he’d just remembered how it was done. Oooooh, I liked that. With one hand he pulled up my top and whisked it right over my head (definite ripping sound–mental note to remember to give it back to Carol with a grovelling apology and a box of After Eights). I tore off his tie, then his shirt, and pressed my tits up against him as my tongue searched for his tonsils and my legs came up around his waist. Suddenly, he pushed them back down and took a step back, a playful look on his face. His eyes ran from the top of my body to my feet. Then, and believe me, I’m getting a hot flush just thinking about this, he dropped to his knees, opened my jeans and tore them down, to reveal–yes, drum roll and trumpets please–new, sexy lace knickers that actually matched my bra. Then he leaned over and ran his tongue very slowly up the inside of my thigh. My fingers were in his hair as I gasped, trying desperately not to come and spoil what I was sure were going to be the most deliciously filthy and downright buttock-clenchingly horny moments of my life.
He ran his tongue over my other thigh. Then at the top, he paused and moved my slut thong over to one side. And then slowly, sexily, gently, he blew. Thank God I’d done the bikini line or the resulting whiplash could have taken out an eye.
It was all too much for me. I yanked him up by the follicles, deftly unbuckled his belt, undid his button, wrenched down his zip then pushed down his boxers, releasing the most magnificent erection I’d seen since before that first little blue line appeared on a stick all those years before.
And when faced with that kind of apparatus, what else is a girl to do but climb on, hold on and scream until the neighbours call the police.
We’ve done it, I thought smugly, as we snuggled down, very sore, very sleepy and very happy. We’d rediscovered
