Latin experts including med students, law-yahs, and Catholic schoolgirls (and boys) are invited to improve upon my translation. I was aiming for "sexual congress denied" best I could find was Latin-American Spanish for denied. That was after a pretty exhaustive search for online translators. Even the ones that claimed to do Latin to English of English to Latin gave me a sleepy "Huh? Isn't that language dead?" Interesting reading though it seems that nearly all the requests for translation to Latin from English were those wanting fairly cerebral phrases for a tattoo. Seems that some of them were a bit lengthy for an armband.
I thought only the strong survive apt, in that if you can take that many needle jabs you are indeed strong. I had a friend (since deceased, peacefully of an aneurysm) who was convinced that many deaths occur from survivable wounds simply because being shot or stabbed is such an affront that the body follows the dictates of the mind that is convinced that one is dying. He was quite an interesting and colorful character. He, as far as I know, never shot, stabbed or otherwise harmed anyone. He was a fully qualified expert on these matters. Need training on ambidextrous use of a pump-action shotgun for when one's dominant arm is wounded? He is your guy. Need a fully automatic Mac-10 with silencer, N.I.B. complete with appropriate (genuine) federal permits. You're covered. Need instruction on construction of quick-release knife sheaths? He just happens to have such a sheath secreted on his person. This former Boy Scout took "be prepared" quite literally. He was in fact preparing for bow season with a pre-run of his field where he most likely would have shot his 35 mm camera from a 25 yard sneak, rather than the bolt of a crossbow when he expired. Cigarettes that he had oft times tried to quit had no doubt increased his blood pressure and weakened his arteries. One often prepares for one thing only to be blindsided another way.
Take tonight, I was prepared to enjoy a delicious leisurely blow job. I awoke from an un-planned nap to read my wifes post. She was settling in for the night, but I was convinced with the toddler asleep finally between us, and my rousing facilities clearing that I could squeeze in a little fellatio by encouraging her out of the bed before she drifted off to sleep. Silly that we made do, lovingly with a queen-sized mattress when newly-wed, and once we graduated to a king-sized mattress, have to flee it for the floor so often with the endless stream of cherubic interlopers over the years. The most persistent finally left for good at the age of seven only when it was explained that with baby on the way, he really needed to spend more time in his big boy bed. It is truly amazing sometimes we have any sex-life at all. This latest one is no doubt going to need extensive therapy but I, refuse to wait another 7 years for regular, uninterrupted nookie. We have done it in the shower, on the cold tile of a Las Vegas hotel bathroom, in the Van in the driveway and in a darkened corner of a parking lot, and these were not the thrill-seeking times.
So the toddler is safely asleep, my wife is not quite yet asleep (or so I tell myself). I wriggle out of my snug jeans I fell asleep in, ditch the undershorts and began stroking my newly smooth lower regions. I was reading Selana Kitt earlier. A blog entry today captured my attention. In it the hero was bragging to a (co-worker?) in an elevator the he could both get off and get his partner off in 30 seconds routinely. She pushed stop and challenged him to prove it in the 2 minutes the stop button would by them. The elusive quickie is a personal goal of mine. Those that are pre-ejaculators dream of marathon fuck-fests, I dream of beating my wife one day to an orgasm. Grass is greener and all that.
My great plan was to masturbate under the covers to near completion and get it in proximity to her mouth as a near fait accompli. Right about then the toddler woke up...Pat-pat, Pat-pat...OK only a delay..been there..it could still happen I tell myself...
Then she's up. Good news is my wife is wide awake again by this point, re-reading Bertrice Small for the umpteenth time. Don't read her myself, but I love that septuagenarian degenerate for the smut she writes that keeps my wife in a slow state of simmering horniness. I selected Patricia Cornwall's excellent "Portrait of a Killer" where she convincingly makes the case for Walter Sickert the painter as Jack the Ripper. A fresh bottle for the baby, and I prepare what I hope to be a pre-coital snack of broiled tomatoes and mozzarella on stale baguette.
The baby manages a crust and then spews all over our sheets. Makes me wish I had one of these mentioned in a comment on AAG's blog. Down to the laundry with two loads, my clothes, comforter, sheets, one of the Wife's blankets. mess cleaned up, baby bathed and soothed...(maybe?)
snuggled back in our bed, dry, warm and clean again. Again, no warning, projectile vomiting. Load in the dryer, one in the washer, new one on deck. As I type the warm and mostly dry comforter is ding its job snuggling me in the comfort against the chill threatening my bare neck from cheap mid-eighties last of the single pane windows construction. A 4th load in the washer (towels this time, the only textiles we had dry and clean to try to fend off the 5th and 6th eruption). The toddler snores. And I type. Not especially horny for some reason.
Edit: 5th load of towels on the way. How does a 16 pound baby survive the loss of this much fluid? ~concerned~