I was sitting on the couch the other night staring blankly at the television. To be honest I don’t remember the show, I just remember being tired. It was 10:15, no one was asking me a question, the dishes were done, the laundry was folded, and it was pin drop quiet. That was until my husband walked out of the office and asked, “What are the odds tonight?”
If you are married you know what this means. This was his clever way of asking if we were going to do it. To be honest, “IT” was the last thing on my mind. I wanted to snuggle up in a blanket and dream about being single and childless for the evening. I wanted to do anything but “IT.” I looked at my husband and said “Chances are slim to none.” His shitty reply, “Oh, sorry I forgot to make an appointment.”
This conversation happens at least once a week. It boggles my mind. I am sitting on the couch close to comatose and all he wants to do is mount me in my stained t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. So with that statement I continue the conversation. “Aren’t you tired?” I asked. “Yes, but I’m never too tired to have sex.” I just don’t get it. How can he not be too tired for sex? Sometimes I wonder if he asks out of habit, but I think the hard truth is that men are just wired that way. They have a constant genetic drive to continue to spread their seed in order to populate the earth. This drive has forced my husband to find creative ways to bed me.
Almost every night we lay in bed and I find his hands in my pants, as though they were his pants. “Can I help you?” I ask. “Yes!”, is always his reply. He usually continues with “I have something for you.” Just once, I would like him to say that and it be something other than his penis. He has an arsenal of one-liners that would rival the greatest of porn stars. For example, last month I mentioned that I had terrible cramps. I was trying to give him the heads up that I would not be entertaining him that evening. His insightful reply, “Does your mouth have cramps too?” What a gentleman.
A while back I was in the middle of watching Grey’s Anatomy. He was pawing on me and trying to get me to follow him into the bedroom. I explained that I was watching my show and I needed to finish the show if he wanted me to finish him. I am a big Dr. Avery fan. If you don’t know who he is, you are missing out. He is a sexy caramel colored treat, big beautiful green eyes, and a set of abs that would make your panties spontaneously drop to the ground. My husband left the room so I could finish watching the show, or so I thought. He walked back in, five minutes later with a picture of Dr. Avery’s face taped over his and Avery’s six pack abs taped onto his keg. “Are you ready now?” He asked. If nothing else the man is very persistent.
A few weeks ago I had a cold. It wasn’t a bad cold, but I had a cough that I couldn’t get rid of. I was at the grocery store when I got a text from my husband.
Husband: How are you feeling?
Me: Good.
Husband: Are you still coughing?
Me: Yes.
Husband: I have something for that.
Me: Really?
Husband: Yes. I have some My-Dicks-a drill. You’re going to take it when you get home.
Apparently my husband is now a medical doctor.
I am pretty sure that there are wives out there just like me. Dealing with husbands that supply them with more than adequate doses of “Penis-cillin” and send them text message from the bedroom asking when they are going to come and get it. Men who were given some type of vaccine to ward off exhaustion and give them the ability to want sex 24 hours a day.
I am not saying that I don’t enjoy sex. Sex is wonderful. But at the end of the day after my blood sucking vampire children and my job have drunk the life out of me, I am exhausted. I have no idea how my husband can be so motivated for sex at the end of the evening. My guess is that he survives so well, because he has a wife. A wife who cooks, cleans, raises the children and blows him. Perhaps if I had someone to complete those tasks for me I would be more inclined to play “hide the sausage” before bed? So this year I will be asking Santa for a wife. A wife to do all the shit I don’t want to do during the day so I can save up my energy for the sex. My husband will no longer need to make an appointment; it will be first come first serve.
About the author: Meredith is a work from home mother of three, who spends most of her time saving for pre-paid therapy for her future adult children. Let’s be honest, they might not all go to college, but odds are they will all need a therapist at some point. Meredith writes about the inappropriate side of marriage and motherhood on her blog, thatsinappripriate.net. She is also a contributor on the parenting team at today.com. You can track her down at https://medium.com/@thatsinapropro and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/thatsinappropriateblog.