Robin's birthday happy ending: check.
I know he'd want you to know.
He'd also want you to know that he was a champ stud. We started the day before his birthday and ended on his birthday. Yeah, well, it was 11:58 last night to 12:13 this morning, but still. So, technically, it was a happy birthday happy beginning.
Wait, shit. Does that mean we have to do it again tonight?
I mean, yay.
No I don't.
It's not that I don't like sex. Or that I don't like sex with Robin. It's just that it's so much work, you know? I'm not all about the herculean effort in life. And I'm not just talking about the isometric stretching beforehand and the victory lap afterwards. I mean, I'm down with that whole deal. I am talking about the work it takes to hold myself in positions that do not highlight my flab. Because even Robin's macular degeneration and calloused fingers can detect an absence of...er...tone in my bod. Having sex with me in unprepared positions is like having sex with a Pillow People person. Not that I'm judging. I mean, it's not my thing but God bless.
It used to be that staying very still on my back did the trick. Everything settles in when you're on your back. Plus, my plethora of chins virtually disappear in that position. However, holding that pose presents a new problem: sideways runaway boobs. I look like a young boy holding a pair of deflated balloon under my armpits.
And, try as I may to make that a hot fantasy, Robin isn't into it.
You know what does turn Robin on? When I take off my glasses.
I swear to God. He likes me to keep them on for a little while and then take them off. He says it signals that I am really going to go all the way this time.
I guess I have stopped the action at times before, you know, the full launch system has been activated.
You know what Robin hates?
When I surreptitiously keep one leg in my underpants during sex. For quick retrieval afterwards. I like to get dressed after sex in the spirit of the crabbers when they do those timed tests for getting into their survival suits on "Deadliest Catch". My record is 3 seconds. Only my bra was on inside out.
I just don't see how watching me cavort naked is going to strengthen - or even save - our marriage. And frankly, Robin's thyroid levels are still being regulated from the cancer; seeing Dr. Strangemom, Unplugged, in the harsh light of day can fuck with his chemical balance. And if he actually died from seeing me naked, I'd totally have to lie and tell people he, I don't know, ran into a poison dart or something. I know I come off all fuck you and shit, but my self- esteem is not invulnerable to shame.
Maybe what I need to do during sex is wear a really big hat. You know, for distraction. Maybe with peacock feathers. And a live cheetah. And a full bong.
I'll get working on it right away. I gotta be ready in a year.