Sometimes I wonder where time went. It seems like it was just last week I was grabbing my backpack, scrambling for a lost notebook, and sprinting across campus to a class I was late for. Again. But really, that was years ago.
Husband and I have not quite hit middle age yet, but we're already having the not-as-young-as-we-used-to-be feelings. He's losing his hair and I'm starting to see the first faint line of wrinkles around my eyes. It's not much, and I know those older than us will be rolling their eyes, but it's enough to know we are changing. Our we-can-do-it-all teens and twenties are behind us.
After an evening of fun that lasted perhaps a little longer than usual, Husband started complaining about his back. He had arched it at some point, further than he should have, and for a day or two needed help putting his socks on. He couldn't bend far enough to reach his feet.
He was sore for several days after. In fact, he's still sore. At one point, he was trying to get up from lying on the couch and announced that he felt like a turtle. Because I'm a good wife and a nice person, I've been massaging his back and helping out when he needs help, but inside I was laughing. Hard.
And then I woke up this morning with a sore shoulder and pain running down my ribs. It had to do with me supporting my weight awkwardly during sex. All of the sudden it's not so funny.
Showing posts with label Bedroom Misadventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bedroom Misadventures. Show all posts
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Bedroom Misadventures: Episode 7
So, the fact of the matter is that I'm a sex and marriage blogger. I read, do research, test products, etc., etc. I suppose this means that sometimes I think about sex toys more than the average person. I guess. Just the other day, I said this on Twitter:
See, that's where my mind goes when it's idle. Better sex toy storage. I mean, my stuff is all hidden away from the kids and all, but geez, it would be nice to have it all in one spot. But as usual, I digress.
A large portion of this blog is reviewing. I mean, if you are going to drop significant money on a toy, I want it to be a toy you are going to love, not a $100 regret or a $20 safety hazard. And because I do so much reviewing and window shopping, sex toys are never very far from my mind. Sometimes, that's distracting. Yesterday, it was very, very distracting.
I had an appointment for a teeth cleaning, and I swear the hygienist must have been a relative of Sweeny Todd. Lots of pain from this routine cleaning. My mouth hurt for hours. But again, not the point. I was sitting in the waiting room, just looking around, being bored, and thinking about how little interest I had in People and Redbook, when I saw it. On the front desk was a large glass statue. It looked very much like a giant one of these:
Do you know what that is? If you've not really a bedroom adventurer or frequent sex toy shopper like some people, you may not know what you're looking at. I'll tell you. That is a butt plug. It does exactly what it sounds like it does.
And my dentist had a giant one sitting on her desk.
I mean, of course it wasn't actually a butt plug. It was just a large, glass statue that was hilariously shaped like a giant butt plug. So, I'm staring at the floor, thinking about just how inappropriate it would be if I started laughing. I'm sure pretty darn inappropriate. So, there I was, eyes on the floor and pretending that my dentist did not, in fact, have a giant glass butt plug on her desk.
Update: When I told my husband this story, he started laughing and said, "When I was there last week, I thought the same thing!" So...it's not just me, then?
A large portion of this blog is reviewing. I mean, if you are going to drop significant money on a toy, I want it to be a toy you are going to love, not a $100 regret or a $20 safety hazard. And because I do so much reviewing and window shopping, sex toys are never very far from my mind. Sometimes, that's distracting. Yesterday, it was very, very distracting.
I had an appointment for a teeth cleaning, and I swear the hygienist must have been a relative of Sweeny Todd. Lots of pain from this routine cleaning. My mouth hurt for hours. But again, not the point. I was sitting in the waiting room, just looking around, being bored, and thinking about how little interest I had in People and Redbook, when I saw it. On the front desk was a large glass statue. It looked very much like a giant one of these:
 |
| Thanks to Beck (NSFW and often contains nudity) for lending me the visual aid pic. |
Do you know what that is? If you've not really a bedroom adventurer or frequent sex toy shopper like some people, you may not know what you're looking at. I'll tell you. That is a butt plug. It does exactly what it sounds like it does.
And my dentist had a giant one sitting on her desk.
I mean, of course it wasn't actually a butt plug. It was just a large, glass statue that was hilariously shaped like a giant butt plug. So, I'm staring at the floor, thinking about just how inappropriate it would be if I started laughing. I'm sure pretty darn inappropriate. So, there I was, eyes on the floor and pretending that my dentist did not, in fact, have a giant glass butt plug on her desk.
Update: When I told my husband this story, he started laughing and said, "When I was there last week, I thought the same thing!" So...it's not just me, then?
Monday, April 15, 2013
The Night of the Zombie Vibrator
I'm about to tell you a story. A true story. Scout's honor. OK, I was never a scout, but my parents did take me to sign up for scouts once, but were told that they were already full. So I never got to be a scout. Sad face.
Anyway, I'm going to tell you the story of the night of the zombie vibrator. OK, it wasn't so much night as it was early afternoon, but that doesn't sound as scary. No good story begins with, "It was a bright and sunny afternoon, just like this...woooo!" I don't tend to buy bullet vibrators, as I find them to be buzzy and annoying. The exception would be high end bullets, like the We-Vibe Salsa. However, many companies give away bullet vibes as freebies with orders so it's likely that even if you never actually buy a bullet vibe you will own one at some point.
One day, I decided to give bullet vibes another chance. For science. Or boredom. I don't remember which. So I pulled out a tiny, silver-colored vibrator with no manufacturer's name on it, inserted the batteries, and turned it on. Yep, just as annoying as I remember. I twisted the dial to turn it off, but it kept buzzing away. I tapped it, shook it, gave it the evil eye, but it wouldn't turn off. Like any sane person, I took the batteries out. That's where the story should have ended, but it didn't.
I lay the batteries apart from it (out of reach of children. Never, ever allow button batteries or watch batteries within reach of children. EVER), and set the bullet on top of my wardrobe.
Dzzt dzzt dzzt.
What was that?
Dzzt dzzt dzzt.
No freaking way. I turned back to the wardrobe and found the vibrator had turned itself back on without any batteries in it. I picked it up, and it buzzed a few times in my hand before finally going quiet. I stood there, utterly confused. Hey, but that's what electrical engineer husband is for. I asked him about it, and he just shrugged, which means he doesn't know, doesn't feel like explaining it, or doesn't believe it actually happened.
Still want an answer, darn it.
Anyway, I'm going to tell you the story of the night of the zombie vibrator. OK, it wasn't so much night as it was early afternoon, but that doesn't sound as scary. No good story begins with, "It was a bright and sunny afternoon, just like this...woooo!" I don't tend to buy bullet vibrators, as I find them to be buzzy and annoying. The exception would be high end bullets, like the We-Vibe Salsa. However, many companies give away bullet vibes as freebies with orders so it's likely that even if you never actually buy a bullet vibe you will own one at some point.
One day, I decided to give bullet vibes another chance. For science. Or boredom. I don't remember which. So I pulled out a tiny, silver-colored vibrator with no manufacturer's name on it, inserted the batteries, and turned it on. Yep, just as annoying as I remember. I twisted the dial to turn it off, but it kept buzzing away. I tapped it, shook it, gave it the evil eye, but it wouldn't turn off. Like any sane person, I took the batteries out. That's where the story should have ended, but it didn't.
I lay the batteries apart from it (out of reach of children. Never, ever allow button batteries or watch batteries within reach of children. EVER), and set the bullet on top of my wardrobe.
Dzzt dzzt dzzt.
What was that?
Dzzt dzzt dzzt.
No freaking way. I turned back to the wardrobe and found the vibrator had turned itself back on without any batteries in it. I picked it up, and it buzzed a few times in my hand before finally going quiet. I stood there, utterly confused. Hey, but that's what electrical engineer husband is for. I asked him about it, and he just shrugged, which means he doesn't know, doesn't feel like explaining it, or doesn't believe it actually happened.
Still want an answer, darn it.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Bedroom Misadventures: Episode 6
My hormones have been really wonky. They get that way sometimes. There's nothing wrong with me, it's just that my body likes to screw with my mind. I'm also a week late, but am 99% sure that I'm not pregnant. My own system hates me that much. I've been checked, and I remember the doctor shrugged, smiled, and said, "It's just the way you are." OK, actually he said, "It's just part of what makes you adorable," because I was an extremely new mom at the time and he was trying to be fatherly and calm me down. I remember him as a friendly, older gentleman that actually gave two craps when you talked to him, but not in the creepy way. But I digress. Anyway, when I've had about as much hormone-induced panic as I can take, my body mysteriously rights itself. Lather, rinse, repeat.
My libido has been very bizarre because of it. Sometimes it's kicked into overdrive; sometimes it's nonexistent. Over the weekend was one of those crazy hormone induced (and probably partly literature and toy shopping induced) overactive sex drive times. It lead to a long, wild, passionate happening. Happening? Yeah, it was kind of unique (to us, anyway), so I'm going to go with "happening." I came out the other side of the evening relaxed, peaceful.
And bruised.
Parts of me (exterior parts, thanks) were a little sore and stiff when I went to bed. When I woke up, I found I had bruises on my wrists. Bruises that are almost unnoticeable, since my skin is very tan due to lots of outdoor time recently, but still there. To a scrupulous and nosy eye, they look suspicious. Would they turn darker? Become more noticeable?
"What's the big deal," you might think. "Who's going to notice?"
Well, probably the people at my kids' school, for starters. I have meetings there this week, and I'll be sitting in very close proximity to other moms who notice everything. And I'm taking notes for the meetings, so my wrists will be front and center. Would they notice? What would I say if they did? I could say, "I walked into a doorknob/doorway/wall/chair/counter." It's plausible. I do that all the time. Walk into things, I mean. But it would be lying. But what choice do I have?
You know what I'd like to say? "We got a little wild and had one of the most intense love making sessions we've ever had. I can't wait to fall into bed with the man I love and do it again." That would the be truth. But you can't freaking say that. Because kids are all born in cabbage patches or brought by storks and sex is just a word people say on TV. I don't like that.
My libido has been very bizarre because of it. Sometimes it's kicked into overdrive; sometimes it's nonexistent. Over the weekend was one of those crazy hormone induced (and probably partly literature and toy shopping induced) overactive sex drive times. It lead to a long, wild, passionate happening. Happening? Yeah, it was kind of unique (to us, anyway), so I'm going to go with "happening." I came out the other side of the evening relaxed, peaceful.
And bruised.
Parts of me (exterior parts, thanks) were a little sore and stiff when I went to bed. When I woke up, I found I had bruises on my wrists. Bruises that are almost unnoticeable, since my skin is very tan due to lots of outdoor time recently, but still there. To a scrupulous and nosy eye, they look suspicious. Would they turn darker? Become more noticeable?
"What's the big deal," you might think. "Who's going to notice?"
Well, probably the people at my kids' school, for starters. I have meetings there this week, and I'll be sitting in very close proximity to other moms who notice everything. And I'm taking notes for the meetings, so my wrists will be front and center. Would they notice? What would I say if they did? I could say, "I walked into a doorknob/doorway/wall/chair/counter." It's plausible. I do that all the time. Walk into things, I mean. But it would be lying. But what choice do I have?
You know what I'd like to say? "We got a little wild and had one of the most intense love making sessions we've ever had. I can't wait to fall into bed with the man I love and do it again." That would the be truth. But you can't freaking say that. Because kids are all born in cabbage patches or brought by storks and sex is just a word people say on TV. I don't like that.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Bedroom Misadventures Episode 5: Blogging Edition
It was all going so well. The house was quiet and I was alone. I am almost never alone. We had house guests, but they, along with Husband and Children, were out for the day. It was just me. I thought I would take the time to snap some photos of products for upcoming reviews. Generally, I do this outside for the better light.
I set it all up. I even had the different backdrops (because photos going to different places get different backgrounds. It's how I organize). I snapped all the photos from all the angles that I needed, and triumphantly went inside. Once in, I took a quick snap of a product's seam that I hadn't noticed before. The camera's click didn't sound right. It wasn't the rapid focus-click I expected on the auto setting. It was slower, and even though I was in a relatively dim room, the flash did not come on.
I wonder why that is, I thought. It's dark. The flash should have-- Oh, crap.
The settings on the camera had been changed. Husband must have used it after I did. He likes to set up his camera just so, controlling everything. Even though I know how to use the camera (and find the info I've forgotten), I generally just have it set to auto. Being a wife and mom, I'm always bouncing from one thing to another, so having it set to auto just helps me get through photos faster when people aren't looking.
Maybe the photos came out, I thought desperately. I plugged in the camera card and had a look. Grainy. Dark. Unuseable. I would have to do the entire shoot again.
Time was getting short and I had no idea when everyone would be back. I certainly didn't want to explain why I had sex furniture everywhere. I hurried to set everything back up. Suddenly, I was aware that the neighbors on both sides of our house were out and active. Time to go lightspeed before they decided to pop their friendly heads over the fence to see what I was up to.
I retook the photos of the small items, then laid out the backdrop for the bigger items: a comparison shoot between the Little Deeper Cushion and the Liberator Wedge. I put the Little Deeper Cushion down, and ran to get the Wedge. On the way back out the Wedge slipped from my fingers. It landed on its edge in the dirt and started cartwheeling across the yard. I chased after it, but when I picked it up I learned the hard way that dirt and sand had stuck to the microfiber of the cover. In my race to pick it up, I jerked it too hard and dirt flew off the cover and into my eyes.
Rubbing debris out of my eyes and off of the Wedge, I took as many good shots as I could, than hustled to pack it all back up before everyone came back home and the neighbors got curious.
In case you are wondering, I made it in time.
I set it all up. I even had the different backdrops (because photos going to different places get different backgrounds. It's how I organize). I snapped all the photos from all the angles that I needed, and triumphantly went inside. Once in, I took a quick snap of a product's seam that I hadn't noticed before. The camera's click didn't sound right. It wasn't the rapid focus-click I expected on the auto setting. It was slower, and even though I was in a relatively dim room, the flash did not come on.
I wonder why that is, I thought. It's dark. The flash should have-- Oh, crap.
The settings on the camera had been changed. Husband must have used it after I did. He likes to set up his camera just so, controlling everything. Even though I know how to use the camera (and find the info I've forgotten), I generally just have it set to auto. Being a wife and mom, I'm always bouncing from one thing to another, so having it set to auto just helps me get through photos faster when people aren't looking.
Maybe the photos came out, I thought desperately. I plugged in the camera card and had a look. Grainy. Dark. Unuseable. I would have to do the entire shoot again.
Time was getting short and I had no idea when everyone would be back. I certainly didn't want to explain why I had sex furniture everywhere. I hurried to set everything back up. Suddenly, I was aware that the neighbors on both sides of our house were out and active. Time to go lightspeed before they decided to pop their friendly heads over the fence to see what I was up to.
I retook the photos of the small items, then laid out the backdrop for the bigger items: a comparison shoot between the Little Deeper Cushion and the Liberator Wedge. I put the Little Deeper Cushion down, and ran to get the Wedge. On the way back out the Wedge slipped from my fingers. It landed on its edge in the dirt and started cartwheeling across the yard. I chased after it, but when I picked it up I learned the hard way that dirt and sand had stuck to the microfiber of the cover. In my race to pick it up, I jerked it too hard and dirt flew off the cover and into my eyes.
Rubbing debris out of my eyes and off of the Wedge, I took as many good shots as I could, than hustled to pack it all back up before everyone came back home and the neighbors got curious.
In case you are wondering, I made it in time.
Monday, February 4, 2013
It's finally happened!...sort of.
I know that scientists and sexual health experts say that 2/3 of women can't have vaginal orgasms. That didn't keep me from trying over and over in the past several years, and with very little success. Oh, I can have a clitoral orgasm just fine, but I want a vaginal/G-spot orgasm. Everyone says they are mind-blowing and the best thing ever. I knew it had never happened for me, and I was most likely incapable of it, but I kept on trying, and Husband kept supporting me. We both held out hope that I could have a vaginal orgasm.
Now, before I continue, let me say this: it doesn't matter whether you, personally, can have a vaginal orgasm or not. Really, it doesn't matter. I mean that. The reason we kept trying is we want to know everything that we can do in the bedroom. We want to know everything our bodies are capable of. If I can have a vaginal orgasm, well, I want to know that.
Moving on. Remember when I got the Njoy Pure Wand? I thought if anything could give me a vaginal orgasm, this could. The Pure Wand has been revered. Celebrated. Adored and sought after. I had high hopes for it, and Husband and I decided I should use it and see what happens. After a little while, my arm got tired. The Pure Wand is stainless steel and heavy. I wanted to keep going, since it seemed to most definitely be working as intended, but I just couldn't. Reluctantly, I paused. Then it happened. I felt the familiar, rhythmic, involuntary pulses of my muscles that usually accompanied my clitoral orgasms, but much weaker. But there was no feeling of release afterward. No clear plateau, no clear resolution. It merely felt good, then this weak pulsing. I wondered if that was it. I wondered if I just had a vaginal orgasm. I did it again. Same result.
Husband and talked about it. What, exactly, had happened? Pulsing, but no release? What's up with that? Nevertheless, involuntary pulsing, even though it's weak, does seem to signal orgasm.
"Is that it?" I asked Husband. "Did I really...?"
"I think so," Husband said.
Honestly, I feel a little cheated for two reasons. One, I've been having that sensation for years, I just never equated it with orgasm. There's no resolution and feeling of release, and the muscle contractions are so weak I don't feel them unless I stop moving. I had no reason to equate those sensations with orgasms until I happened, seemingly by chance, to stop moving when I had the same sensation. Two, I was promised mind-blowing, darn it! Where is the amazing, nothing-can-top-it feeling everyone raves about? This is it? A few minor muscle contractions? Well, darn it.
This the point where I remember that everyone is different. It would appear that I just have weak vaginal orgasms. There's nothing wrong with my clitoral ones being much, much stronger. But then I wonder if I can ever get to the point of amazing vaginal ones. I'm going to work on my kegels and see what that does. Or, maybe this is it. I also wonder if more women are actually capable of vaginal orgasms but don't know it because they are so weak.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Bedroom Misadventures: Episode 4
You've seen me talk about doing DIY spa fun at home with Husband. Although he's not exactly in touch with his feminine side, he does love the attention of being exfoliated with a sweet smelling sugar scrub, being massaged, and relaxing to the soft light of candles. I'm more than happy to oblige.
A few nights ago, I put together another one of our wonderful spa nights. I got the sugar scrub ready, the basalt stones set up in case he wanted a hot stone massage, placed the candles, and made a bubble bath with a recipe I had found online that was repeated over and over with such authority and vehemence that I thought it must be a good recipe. This recipe called for castile soap like Doctor Bronner's (I used peppermint Dr. B's), some essential oil (lavender for me), glycerin, and water. Simple, yes? I thought so.
I mixed it all up in a pretty glass container and set it on the side of the super-crazy-shiny-tub-that-I've-spent-all-day-cleaning-in-preparation-for-this. Then, I waited for the kids to go to bed. Everything was going according to plan.
I ran the tub and added the bubble bath. Husband noted his surprise and pleasure at the bubbles forming. Everything was going great, until the bubbles, as soon as they formed, vanished. There were no bubbles in the bubble bath, and we hadn't even stepped into the tub yet. What was there was milky white and very fragrant bath water, so we just continued on and got into the tub.
So far, so good. Husband and I were enjoying each other's company, rubbing each other down with new wash cloths and just being present. I was relaxed, he was relaxed and then...
Did I mention I used PEPPERMINT Doctor Bronner's for the bubble bath?
Maybe you don't know where I'm going with this. Let me explain. A lady's parts are very sensitive. Think of the cool-but-slightly-burning sensation you get in your mouth when you eat a peppermint candy. Now think of that same sensation, but stronger, in a place where it should not be.
Fortunately, the feeling stopped almost immediately after I got out of the water and rinsed off. Husband thought it was funny and endearing, as he always does when one of my experiments goes wrong. Well, lesson learned. Peppermint is not for baths.
A few nights ago, I put together another one of our wonderful spa nights. I got the sugar scrub ready, the basalt stones set up in case he wanted a hot stone massage, placed the candles, and made a bubble bath with a recipe I had found online that was repeated over and over with such authority and vehemence that I thought it must be a good recipe. This recipe called for castile soap like Doctor Bronner's (I used peppermint Dr. B's), some essential oil (lavender for me), glycerin, and water. Simple, yes? I thought so.
I mixed it all up in a pretty glass container and set it on the side of the super-crazy-shiny-tub-that-I've-spent-all-day-cleaning-in-preparation-for-this. Then, I waited for the kids to go to bed. Everything was going according to plan.
I ran the tub and added the bubble bath. Husband noted his surprise and pleasure at the bubbles forming. Everything was going great, until the bubbles, as soon as they formed, vanished. There were no bubbles in the bubble bath, and we hadn't even stepped into the tub yet. What was there was milky white and very fragrant bath water, so we just continued on and got into the tub.
So far, so good. Husband and I were enjoying each other's company, rubbing each other down with new wash cloths and just being present. I was relaxed, he was relaxed and then...
Did I mention I used PEPPERMINT Doctor Bronner's for the bubble bath?
Maybe you don't know where I'm going with this. Let me explain. A lady's parts are very sensitive. Think of the cool-but-slightly-burning sensation you get in your mouth when you eat a peppermint candy. Now think of that same sensation, but stronger, in a place where it should not be.
Fortunately, the feeling stopped almost immediately after I got out of the water and rinsed off. Husband thought it was funny and endearing, as he always does when one of my experiments goes wrong. Well, lesson learned. Peppermint is not for baths.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Bedroom Misadventures Episode 3
Husband has always wanted to have sex in a car. I don't get that, but it's something incredibly exciting for him. One night, I finally agreed. It was late, the kids were asleep, most of our neighboring houses were empty, and the vehicle we had at the time had tinted windows. We would not be seen unless someone literally invaded our property. Husband could finally have his little fantasy and nothing questionable would happen.
We walked out to the car (fully clothed). Husband unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Then the car alarm went off.
We're not talking about a tiny little beep beep here. It was a loud, repeating honk as the very bright lights flashed over and over. Husband hurried to try to get it to turn off, but he didn't know how. The car was new to us (we no longer have it now), and it took some figuring out. When he finally got it to turn off, we slunk, red-faced, back into the house.
A short time later, he went outside. When he didn't come back, I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing outside, waiting for me. He coaxed me into trying again and opened the car door.
The car alarm went off. Again.
Do you ever feel like someone is trying to tell you something?
We walked out to the car (fully clothed). Husband unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Then the car alarm went off.
We're not talking about a tiny little beep beep here. It was a loud, repeating honk as the very bright lights flashed over and over. Husband hurried to try to get it to turn off, but he didn't know how. The car was new to us (we no longer have it now), and it took some figuring out. When he finally got it to turn off, we slunk, red-faced, back into the house.
A short time later, he went outside. When he didn't come back, I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing outside, waiting for me. He coaxed me into trying again and opened the car door.
The car alarm went off. Again.
Do you ever feel like someone is trying to tell you something?
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Bedroom Misadventures Episode 2
The Flip Hole comes in a large, plastic tube that also houses the instructions and three small bottles of lubricant. One of the lubricant bottles had come lose and spilled lube all over the inside and outside of the package, and all over the box. I didn't panic. Shipping issues happen, and as long as the item wasn't damaged, we were fine. It wasn't. I figured I'd just wash it off, no problem.
Checking the package, trying to find a way to open the cylinder, I noticed a tiny red dot near the top that said, "PUSH." Ah, a way to open it. I pushed. Not hard. This sent the round, plastic lid of the cylinder flying past me, across the room, but not before grazing my head and depositing lubricant all over my hair.
Not awesome. Funny, but not awesome.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
A Sad Day
Remember when I received the JimmyJane Contour M, and I was ever so happy? A nice little self or partnered massage was perfect for just relaxing and easing those muscles that are always tense (I have chronic tension headaches. Fun). Anyway, in short, I loved it.
Well, the other night I was crawling into bed in the dark when there was an unexplained noise that can best be described as cross between a crunch and a shatter. I had left the massager on the bed and forgotten about it. Now I have this:
And now I'm sad.
Well, the other night I was crawling into bed in the dark when there was an unexplained noise that can best be described as cross between a crunch and a shatter. I had left the massager on the bed and forgotten about it. Now I have this:
And now I'm sad.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Bedroom Misadventures, Episode 1 (revised, to make it a little less embarrassing)
I've been debating whether or not to say anything of our failed experiments. Embarrassing, horrifying, failed attempts at new positions and toys. The more I think about it, the more I figure that this blog is about honesty. If I'm encouraging others to be open about sex with their spouses and know that it's OK to talk about, I certainly can't pretend I'm Little Miss Always Has a Perfect Love Making Session. Because, well, I don't. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I fail epicly. All that being said, let me tell you about last night...
Husband and I are both pretty adventurous in the bedroom. We'll try just about anything once with a few exceptions (things that are obviously illegal and bringing in another person/swinging. Those are both a big, fat NO for us). Anyway, when one of us has a thought on something new to try, whether it be a new position, using a different piece of furniture, or trying a new toy or sexy activity, we bring it up to the other person. The other person gives a yes, no, maybe, not this time, ask again tomorrow, etc. There is no judgement or anger involved in any of this and the worst we can possibly say is "no." No big deal, right? Well, usually it's not.
Last night I got up the nerve to ask for something that's been running around in my head for a while. You know I do a lot of reading and research for all this blogging nonsense, right? In my travels, I pick up on new ideas. New activities. New toys and positions. Anyway, this idea (which I'm a bit too embarrassed to tell you what it was. Shut up. Don't judge me) had me curious enough to give it some deep thought, and, following our "We'll try just about anything once" mantra, I brought up the idea to Husband. He gave me a "maybe." Fine by me.
In the end, his answer ended up being a combination of "No, not my thing," and "We'll revisit the idea at a later time." Again, no big deal. It wasn't the first time either of us turned down an idea. No further discussion is necessary.
Almost.
I'm a bit of a hormonal mess right now (no, I'm not pregnant, in case that's where your mind went), which for me means everything is a big deal. We had our splendid couple's time and went about our evening, but afterward I felt so awful. I felt personally rejected and embarrassed that I ever brought up such an idea. Of course, those feelings were uncalled for. He never meant to make me feel that way, but those feelings were there anyway. He picked up on my mood, but interpreted as disappointment. He tried to make me feel better, but since he misunderstood what was wrong, he failed.
He made his charmingly confused face at me when his attempts at making me feel better didn't have the desired effect. The kind of expression that makes me melt and fall in love with him all over again.
Poor guy.
I didn't sleep well last night, and this morning I was still feeling all sorts of rejected and embarrassed. Husband reassured me that those feelings are unnecessary. He's said no to ideas before. I've said no to ideas before. So what was different about this time? Well, that would be the ball of hormones that is me at the moment. Ugh. Hey, who wants some tea? I know I do.
Husband and I are both pretty adventurous in the bedroom. We'll try just about anything once with a few exceptions (things that are obviously illegal and bringing in another person/swinging. Those are both a big, fat NO for us). Anyway, when one of us has a thought on something new to try, whether it be a new position, using a different piece of furniture, or trying a new toy or sexy activity, we bring it up to the other person. The other person gives a yes, no, maybe, not this time, ask again tomorrow, etc. There is no judgement or anger involved in any of this and the worst we can possibly say is "no." No big deal, right? Well, usually it's not.
Last night I got up the nerve to ask for something that's been running around in my head for a while. You know I do a lot of reading and research for all this blogging nonsense, right? In my travels, I pick up on new ideas. New activities. New toys and positions. Anyway, this idea (which I'm a bit too embarrassed to tell you what it was. Shut up. Don't judge me) had me curious enough to give it some deep thought, and, following our "We'll try just about anything once" mantra, I brought up the idea to Husband. He gave me a "maybe." Fine by me.
In the end, his answer ended up being a combination of "No, not my thing," and "We'll revisit the idea at a later time." Again, no big deal. It wasn't the first time either of us turned down an idea. No further discussion is necessary.
Almost.
I'm a bit of a hormonal mess right now (no, I'm not pregnant, in case that's where your mind went), which for me means everything is a big deal. We had our splendid couple's time and went about our evening, but afterward I felt so awful. I felt personally rejected and embarrassed that I ever brought up such an idea. Of course, those feelings were uncalled for. He never meant to make me feel that way, but those feelings were there anyway. He picked up on my mood, but interpreted as disappointment. He tried to make me feel better, but since he misunderstood what was wrong, he failed.
He made his charmingly confused face at me when his attempts at making me feel better didn't have the desired effect. The kind of expression that makes me melt and fall in love with him all over again.
Poor guy.
I didn't sleep well last night, and this morning I was still feeling all sorts of rejected and embarrassed. Husband reassured me that those feelings are unnecessary. He's said no to ideas before. I've said no to ideas before. So what was different about this time? Well, that would be the ball of hormones that is me at the moment. Ugh. Hey, who wants some tea? I know I do.
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