We’d had this day in the backs of
our minds all week. The kid was heading to the renaissance faire with his
friends. Historically, they geek out, dress up, spend all day there, and come home sunburned. I’m jealous here, not
judging – now that he’s old enough to do it with his friends, there’s nobody
left to do it with me! The upside though, is the empty Saturday. I love
afternoon sex. Three o’clock in the afternoon is my favorite time of day to get
laid. The light is right, and it comes from the sun, so there’s no turning it
off. The heat of the day is in the room with you, contained in just the
slightest sheen of damp on your skin. If you open the window, there’s the
breeze against it too, and the sounds of innocent, afternoon life outside your
world. Most of all, 3pm is a time when you should almost certainly be doing
something else. It’s decadent. I was tight in the grip of anticipation.
The kid left later than planned,
but whatever, the day would still be long enough for the slow, heady rise to
late afternoon, and finally he was out of the house. We got comfortable, we
sampled new porn, we talked sex, we groped and fondled, tested, tasted and
played… We spent fourish hours on casual foreplay. No penetr – no wait, that’s
not true – no intercourse, I guess is
accurate. Then as the heavy tension built toward a true, inhibition-free
bacchanal, we got a text saying the boy was already on his way home. Pardon? By
which I mean WHAT?!
Okay so we had two options: Start
the serious action for real and make it quick (not likely – cheap-out after
four hours of build up? I don’t think so.) We could wait, and wait, and wait
some more, and hope the mood sustained until after dinner (which meant we’d
suddenly have to plan and execute an actual dinner). Our two possible plans
were equally unappealing. And then my genius husband came up with Plan the
Third: “Here’s $20 for a pizza; we’re going out, and we’re going to be late.”
Because sometimes you just have to
go to a hotel that’s two miles away from your house, and pay for a night you
know you’ll only stay for half of. Sometimes you have to pack a hotel bag
arsenal of kinky lingerie, sex toys, embellishments and accoutrement that you
know you’ll maybe use a quarter of. Sometimes you have to demand a hotel room
with a balcony, so that you can do things on it that leave a wet spot and will
get you kicked out, if your neighbors on either side happen to look out their
windows. Sometimes you have to go to a hotel and test the height of the wet bar
against the height of your husband’s pelvis. Sometimes you have to go to a
hotel and have marathon blow job sessions on your knees, in front of a couch
you don’t want to see under a black light. (Sometimes you need to hear someone
you want to spend your whole life fucking say something as awesome to you as “That
is Jedi-level cock sucking.”) Sometimes you have to overindulge. Sometimes you
have to shed your everyday life and dip your naked core in saturnalia. Sometimes
you have to go to a hotel and realize three hours in that you haven’t fucked on
the bed yet… And then correct that oversight with impressive, eyebrow-raising
flourish.
Sometimes you have to be the reason
that germaphobes have anxiety attacks in hotel rooms.
(Not sure this one goes with the spirit of the post musically, but I just couldn't pull the trigger on Hotel California...)
No comments:
Post a Comment