So my husband has decided that it’s “his” day on Sundays, and he would often suggest that he’s hard done by (excuse the pun) by only receiving it once a week. Now I’m not sure what the national average is for Australia, or for the rest of the world, but I think once a week is fair and square. But why Sundays? Why can’t he just bring me a cup of tea to have in bed rather than produce a hard on in the small of my back to wake up me up? Not very inviting if you ask me. I dread the thought of doing it on a Sunday morning, so sometimes he might get lucky and get it done on a Friday night, or Saturday night.
Sundays are for sleeping in, reading the newspaper and lazing around all day. For absolutely nothing else.
Do you honestly think I love having my period? Well yeah, I actually love everything that comes with having a period. I love lying in bed with the body characteristics of a beached whale – (why is that my muscles always turn to jelly during this time?), stomach bloated, boobs swollen and hard like watermelons. Yeah I love the uncontrollable urges to eat a block of chocolate in one go, consequences to be paid later. Yeah I love sitting on the toilet during a heavy flow, ovaries on fire, sick stomach, clots of blood falling into the toilet.
Please leave me alone during this time. Do not ask me for sex. If I had the option of using this as an excuse to get out of sex or not having periods at all, I’d probably choose the latter. IT IS NOT AN EXCUSE. It’s a nightmare. The last thing I would want to do is strip off naked in front of you, and perform another nightmarish task during this time. Are you freaking serious?
I think I’m on the cusp of being a Generation Y human being. Does this mean I’m meant to know about Tinder? I think you should know about Tinder. How does it work? Apparently when you’re a bit horny, you download the app to your phone, and it will show you a picture of who’s just as horny as you in your area. It’s not a relationship tool like I thought it was, it’s a hook up tool in fact! Can you think of anything more dirtier? Swipe… um….. left if you want to hook up with them, swipe right if you don’t? What happens then? Do you go and seek out the person and take them home? Do you even try and schmooze them?
If I can’t fulfill your hourly sexual requests, maybe you can find someone on Tinder? Open relationship? Nah, don’t worry about that, just don’t tell me. What I don’t know doesn’t hurt me.
I recently watched a documentary, “Secrets of the gay sauna” on local television. It was based around a sauna somewhere in the UK where men would utilise the sauna, where they can choose to have a happy ending with willing other participants, in dedicated rooms upstairs. The show interviewed an older married gay couple, probably in their 60s, where one half of the relationship would visit the sauna on a daily basis, to get his fix. His stay-at-home husband didn’t bat an eyelid at his promiscuity, rather I think he felt relieved that he himself didn’t have to fulfill his husband’s sexual desires. I think I’d feel exactly the same way as the stay-at-home husband did. By all means, have a crack at Tinder, and even pick up some tips at Tinder Seductions. It looks OK?
Swipe left, swipe right. Swipe leave me alone.
My husband gets home from work. This is our conversation:
Mumbling husband: Want to go into the bedroom to give me a hand job?
Husband: Don’t worry about it.
The subject of this post is the very reason my husband got me this domain name. My husband thought it was pretty funny to buy me this webspace. Well, let me tell you, he’ll be laughing on the other side of his face after this website is finished. I’ll be laughing because:
- I’ll be talking about your penis a lot of the time
- I’ll be whinging about you in probably every single post
- This site will probably humiliate you
- You will be sorry that you ever gave me this platform to raise my concerns about your behaviour.
My husband is old enough to know that most women, like myself, aren’t even interested in sex. IT’S A CHORE. How do you think the age old phrase of “I’ve got a headache” came about? So… no sex means no penis. No I don’t want you to flop it out of your pants when I’m cooking dinner. Why on earth would I want to see something so ugly when I’m just about to eat? And no, I probably don’t want to see it when you’re walking past the TV and flop it out, at the same time obscuring my view of the TV. And nah, I don’t really want to see it pressed up against the glass shower screen door while I’m having a shower.
Nope – don’t want to see it, don’t want to touch it, so STOP FLOPPING IT OUT IN FRONT OF ME. I might want to vomit.