As the title suggests, this post is about sex. Whilst I will endeavor not to go into too much gory detail, there is a disclaimer here.
Those with anal dispositions, please log off now.
If you happen to know me In Real Life, you may not want to read this one. Because, you know, we have to look each other in the eyes again at some point.
If you happen to be my mother, you really don’t want to read this one. For the reason listed above.
If, God forbid, you are my father, close the window now and pretend this never happened. For the reason listed above and so many more.
And if you are my husband- Hi, Man. I did warn you this one was going straight to the blog.
Now, on with the show.
It probably comes as no surprise that, with two kids under three, any hanky panky in the Purple House happens either
a) When opportunity knocks.
B) not at all.
An it also probably not surprising that option b) is the one that usually gets laid on table* first up. (Can anyone say “I am just too freaking exhausted?”)
Which leads us to situations like the one I found myself in recently.
The Man returns home from his first physiotherapy appointment** and states
“The physio says more sex will fix my sciatica”
Hmmm. Dubious. Very dubious.
But who am I to argue with a medical professional?
The venue for this particular tryst was the kitchen.
Kinky, yes? Well, actually, no. More a matter of necessity, with one child asleep upstairs and the other snoozing in the lounge room. Kinky is most definitely the luxury of people without small children.
Just-long-enough-to-be-satisfying-but-not-a-marathon-because-I-have-a-short-attention-span later and we’re done. The residual compliments about how freaking awesome we are flow, we have a quick smooch, clothes go back on.
The Man pulls out the bread and butter to make a sandwich.
And I resume the stacking of the dishwasher.
I tell you what, Followees.
The sex lives of married people with little children. So hot, you could almost make a porno out of it.
*So to speak.
**Please, don’t be alarmed. The Man has had sciatica for at least two weeks now, whinging all the while. I have no sympathy. When he is 36 weeks pregnant, carrying a toddler on his hip, with his nerves pinching so badly he is walking like John Wayne, then he can whinge to me. And I will totally have sympathy. Totally.
*** And just for the record, the Man’s physio was lying. It did nothing to help his sciatica.