I only had Friday off, and it is impractical to make a 450 mile round trip and be back to work and sharp in less than 24 hours.
The Wife loaded up The Kids in The Minivan and made the drive. Several miscues including me turning off my cellphone instead of just ending a call later, I arrived at the same location she was headed to, close to the job site, and several hours drive for her. She arrived a bit fatigued from the drive, and I was more tired than I expected after two weeks of getting up hours before the time I was accustomed to.
Waiting for the toddler to fall asleep I was out hard. I woke up at about 4:30 to sue the bathroom and despite trying to be quiet woke her up. After we both tried to go back to sleep for a while, she got up to go to the bathroom and decided I was already back to sleep. She then got up with the rest of the early to work household we were visiting. After she didn't return for a while I fell to sleep.
We had a great time with the kids the next day, all very interesting but not very blog-worthy in this venue. We took a drive to the site, they got to see the heavy equipment at a pretty close range. We drove a bit further and higher and caught some trees and had a snowball fight. Wife mentioned the long drive for so far no affection not even a kiss. I, having forgotten my toothbrush the night gave her a sincere but closed mouth kiss. We groped and fondled a bit when the opportunity presented. (rarely)
On the trip down the twisty, guard-rail-less, road, I felt my eyelids droop. I pulled over to rest them, and the kids begged to scramble again in the snow. As they left the van I realized we were alone at long last. I looked over at her and confirmed she had thought the same thing. Then I took a nap. Sad. Really, kind of pathetic.
After a brief respite, one of the kids clomped into and then back out of the van. Repeatedly. I pointed out to The Fellatio Artist that it was in fact Friday, and that in keeping with Fellatio Friday, I really should let her suck it. She gave me a bemusedly tolerant look, but in fact did bend over to my seat pretty agreeably once I unbuttoned my fly. She made a good effort but the vertigo of the road took its toll on her. The proximity of the kids took a toll on me. Eventually she sat up and I continued the stimulation on my own as she watched and occasionally gave it a lick and a promise as she called it. At some point one of the kids came over to the van, then crossed behind and came unexpectedly right to my window.... If not for his short height and quick reflexes on my part, he would be talking about that in therapy for years.
So, she made the 450 mile round trip for a quick kiss, and got the short end of the bargain trading it for half a blow job.
This job is seriously impacting our, ahem, intimate life.
Showing posts with label Coitus Interruptus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Coitus Interruptus. Show all posts
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
No Contact Celibacy. - The Husband.
Not even two hand touch above the waist. Internet's down at home. Vonage is forwarding calls to my cell phone wearing down the battery and subjecting me to bill collectors...
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Coitus Negado. - The Husband
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~
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~
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The exigencies of parenthood...The Husband
Two years and a day ago we were having kinky raunchy animalistic sex. I believe the moment was actually captured on 8 mm videotape at the time. At the end of a marathon session that began as we waited, bored for the Black Friday line to begin forming at our local Walmart. We had our eyes on the $400 HP laptop for the fellatio artist. Who new the consequences of that Thursday night.
With our youngest child finally in school we were getting re-acquainted in the kinkiest of ways in every room of the house on school days. We hadn't actively taken any preventative measures but years of infertility left us feeling that the sex was more recreational than procreational. We had had trouble with conceiving and after a little plumbing re-route to cool the overdeveloped blood supply in my testes,had resulted in a quick succession of our 2nd, 3rd and 4th (and we thought last) child.
Despite standing in line for several hours rather than the approved legs in the air like a dead cockroach fertility pose, one of my boys defied gravity and swam up through her hostile acidity and the very last one, a runt to judge by the size of the offspring, diving through the membrane of one of her last eggs.
Flash forward two years, we have a lilliputian toddler who is demanding and spoiled completely out of scale to her size. We now own that second laptop, so we type kinky things to each other via the audience of the whole world in a blog as the toddler tries for the umpteenth time to chew,bend, yank or otherwise molest the fragile power cords and their connection.
That last post, just scant moments ago began with promise. The small but evil one was out cold and the wife was naked on the futon we have thrown on the floor in desperation for some privacy and some ability to fuck at anything more than a languorous don't-wake-the-baby pace.
Lo and behold the wife cellphone chimes in mid pump...her sister from her delightfully open-minded family excused herself when my wife explained she had caught us mid-coitus.
The damage was done. The beatific smile on the little urchin's face is heartwarming, but a bit of a deflation in my er, well ardor. So I guess that just means the extraneous sperm production will be held in reserve to gush forth in copious quantities later.
With our youngest child finally in school we were getting re-acquainted in the kinkiest of ways in every room of the house on school days. We hadn't actively taken any preventative measures but years of infertility left us feeling that the sex was more recreational than procreational. We had had trouble with conceiving and after a little plumbing re-route to cool the overdeveloped blood supply in my testes,had resulted in a quick succession of our 2nd, 3rd and 4th (and we thought last) child.
Despite standing in line for several hours rather than the approved legs in the air like a dead cockroach fertility pose, one of my boys defied gravity and swam up through her hostile acidity and the very last one, a runt to judge by the size of the offspring, diving through the membrane of one of her last eggs.
Flash forward two years, we have a lilliputian toddler who is demanding and spoiled completely out of scale to her size. We now own that second laptop, so we type kinky things to each other via the audience of the whole world in a blog as the toddler tries for the umpteenth time to chew,bend, yank or otherwise molest the fragile power cords and their connection.
That last post, just scant moments ago began with promise. The small but evil one was out cold and the wife was naked on the futon we have thrown on the floor in desperation for some privacy and some ability to fuck at anything more than a languorous don't-wake-the-baby pace.
Lo and behold the wife cellphone chimes in mid pump...her sister from her delightfully open-minded family excused herself when my wife explained she had caught us mid-coitus.
The damage was done. The beatific smile on the little urchin's face is heartwarming, but a bit of a deflation in my er, well ardor. So I guess that just means the extraneous sperm production will be held in reserve to gush forth in copious quantities later.
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