It's no secret that The Partner and I have different attitudes toward sex. He can take it or leave it, while I prefer to take it.
He often goes a week-and-a-half to two weeks without showing any interest. Then, suddenly, the testosterone begins to flow. This time it coincided with a deluge of another kind, and the story that resulted is such a sad but illustrative commentary on the state of my sex life that I cannot help but relay it to you here.
I had just climbed into bed for the evening. The Partner called the dog downstairs for her evening constitutional. I heard the door open. I heard the door shut. I heard "Goodbye" from The Partner's AOL session and I heard him let the dog back in. They both padded up the steps toward bed.
I had an inkling that The Partner might be interested in a little romp in the hay. It had been long enough that even he should have been getting antsy. But then I heard the bathroom door shut, and instead of water spilling over a toothbrush, I heard him settling onto the toilet. Then I heard sounds no amorous wife should ever hear.
"No, he is not," I thought to myself.
Yes, he was.
I was trying to decide whether or not this was a blatant enough foul to call off the entire game when I heard a muttered expletive from behind the closed door. Then, louder: "What did you DO to this toilet?"
I shook my head. I was crossing over from disbelief to shock. "What did I do? Well, I did not just take a huge dump," I shrieked indignantly.
More expletives, and then the deep, bubbling suck of a plunger. I buried my head in the pillow and took in all available air with my sigh. The roiling continued in the bathroom. I lay dejected on my stomach.
Finally, after the faucet ran its perfunctory course over soapy hands, The Partner emerged from the bathroom. His fortnightly good humor having returned, he sidled up to my side of the bed.
"Where did you leave the plunger?" I demanded, squirming away from him.
"On the floor next to the toilet."
"Ugh. How did you clean it off?"
"I rinsed it in the toilet," he said, seriously.
"You rinsed it in the..." I trailed off. I wanted to slam my forehead into the headboard repeatedly. And not in a good way.
"I'm quite the plumber, aren't I?" He was full of pride as he insinuated himself into my space once more with a disgusting spooning motion. The only thing plumber-like about him was the inch of ass crack that I could be sure was peeking out from his boxers as he curved around me.
"Hmph," I muttered to the wall. This was a new low. But it wasn't over yet. I steeled myself for what was coming. You don't know someone for more than ten years without gaining some insight into his indiscriminate use of the double entendre.
"Want me to plunge you?"