(Before you question this post's taste or the subject matter, rest assured that as it happened Gary said "You're going to blog this. right?" and I said "Oh I'd never blog something so intimate about you." He said I had to do it, just with some attempt and delicacy and taste.)
Saturday morning Gary, my husband, and I were fooling around in bed. Often the fooling around stops at the fooling around point, because Gary is the Bob Fosse of sex. It's always a two and a half hour long high-quality production, with him as the choreographer. "Faster! No, now slower! And arch your back more! Now, switch positions!" (Five six seven eight!) "Quickie" to him would be like Bob Fosse doing some guest choreography for an episode of Happy Days.
But today, there was fooling, and there was advisement of exactly what Was In Store for Me, and there was advancement to the Big Stage Production. And then, after the first twenty minutes of the Big Stage Production, there was a ding-dong of the doorbell.
"Girl Scout cookies?" I wondered.
"Not this time of year. Don't answer it."
"No prob - shit! Shit! It's the termite inspector. I have to!" (and I, shall we say, exited the "stage" and put on my bathrobe.)
"Let him come back later! Are you insane?"
I explained I'd already spaced out once on the appointment for the yearly termite inspection to keep our termite insurance (if termites destroy the house they buy us a new one, and of course our friends should have had this before their dining room wall and ceiling collapsed onto their dining room table). I also explained that if he came back anytime in the next few hours it might be even more embarrassing, because the audience can be enthusiastic in its praise of the Bob Fosse Big Stage Production. I opened the front door.
"Hi there! I was just getting into the shower! Good thing I heard the bell!" I lied brightly to the termite man. I lied brightly through my poufy kissed lips and heightened cheek color and mussy hair.
Termite man didn't want to call me on the obvious lie, or perhaps he didn't want to be the trois a our menage, or perhaps was just not that into me, but he went on with termite business, which means he looked at the outer walls for termites. Gary had gotten dressed by now and Termite Man had started in the basement, so Gary came out and whispered:
"Dress yourself!"
"No! He'll be gone soon."
"You are not decent!"
"No! (whine) It will spoil the mood."
Gary suggested the mood? it was spoiled. So I got dressed and pouted.
Gary took over the Termite Tour and I busied myself cleaning up dog poo and emptying the dishwasher. Gary and Termite Man looked at all the ground-level rooms; then TermiteMan inspected the backyard. Gary tracked me down and giggled:
"He knows. He must know. Our bedroom looks like a Love Nest. Underwear is everywhere - your underwear, my underwear, there's a towel over the air-conditioner vent, the coverlet is on the floor, and there are two half-drunk wine glasses of Baileys on the nightstand. "
(Gary has developed a strong affection for Baileys, in fact he suggested the other day they should change the label to read "Baileys Mouthwash" since that's how he's been using it. He takes a slug if he has a bad taste in his mouth, or if he's had peanut butter, or if the pantry door is open and he notices it.)
I pouted the Mighty Termito would be gone soon and that this brief intermission should not interfere with the Bob Fosse Big Stage Production, but Gary insisted we pay the Man, clean up to some degree, and go get some Starbucks. Happily, he didn't wear underwear to the Starbucks so that I would know he still meant business.
We got back, locked the dog out of the room, and went On With the Show for TEN WHOLE FREAKING MINUTES before the phone rang. We listened for the Talking Caller Id to say who it was, but instead it read the number, which means it's a number not in our database. I looked down at the phone because Gary could not see it from his vantage point (see, that was delicate) and he said he'd have to take this call.
"Hello?"
"HI Gary! This is Karen!" (His sister, who speaks loudly enough on her cell phone for me to hear both sides of the conversation.) "Where are you? We're standing in line to see Rupert from Survivor at that dentist's office. We thought you'd be here too."
I practiced some basic dance moves until Gary hustled her off the phone and asked me, "Rupert? Who?"
"I don't know. It's from that Survivor show she watches." Evidently this is Rupert:
...and what he is doing at a dentist's office outside Saint Louis I cannot imagine.
We valiantly struggled on until the dog Mac decided he needed to help us keep time by barking a crisp "Hey I'm OUT here" bark every 3 seconds, and eventually we gave up. The show closed in rehearsals. It did not open on Broadway to rave reviews for the choreography, though the dance work was kick-ass, if you catch my meaning.
There was hope for a revival this morning, but Gary checked his Blackberry. Sigh. I think there's a rule you should give up on sex if it isn't over after twenty-four hours.
Number 1: It is too BIG. Particularly here at the corona (Don't argue with me, I had to look it up.) I'd be fine if we didn't have this flare thing at this point. Getting it in: I have considered hammering it in with my shoe. Getting it out: the shape resembles those nasty O.B. tampons that gave women toxic shock. Unnecessary. Perhaps if they made uncircumcised vibrators we wouldn't have this issue.
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