Monday, March 14, 2005

Cooter Pie

Eating out hasn’t been the same this last month. Once upon a time my wife had hip bones, a lovely dip beneath the navel when she was lying on her back, a tummy that held a little circle of pudge that was yummy and motionless. Nowadays, I get her on her back and I fucking find Nemo bumping around in there.

First there’s the foreplay. Ladies, look, we fellas got to know when we’re doing it right. You girls make noises that could mean both “Ooh, I love the circles, don’t stop” just as much as it could mean “Sensitive, you moron, back off, ow, OW!” Without the visual, it’s hard to tell. That’s why when we’re dining out we like to be able to look up and make sure things are on the right track.. Does she like that? What’s this spot right here do? Oh, shit, she shrieked. Is that bad? Goddammit, I forgot to change the oil in the truck today.

Now throw an 8 inch tall mound ‘o fetuses in the way and everything goes awry. I’m down there getting my groove on, looking up at the underside of the biggest belly I’ve ever laid eyes on from that angle when suddenly a thigh comes out of nowhere and slams against my ear.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“That’s too much, it hurts! Move around!”

Well, fuck. Look, all I wanna do is stick it in, all right? At least understand I’m down here for you. Yeah, it’s good. I like the taste, the power, the way it makes you want to ride me like a rodeo bull, but dammit have some understanding that I’m driving blind down here, will ya? I can’t see shit anymore. Swirl, swirl, lick, suck, swirl, swirl, moan, groan, spastic jerk. That’s what I was taught before. I had a routine. And it worked. Now I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

And holy mother of Christ, how in god’s name am I supposed to mount up? It’s in the way! We’re down to 3 positions, none of which are any of your damn business, but you can safely assume missionary doesn’t come into play. In fact, missionary is only remotely possible if I scoot her to the edge and stand up, that way I don’t have to lean over the mass of children who live for the opportunity to fuck up my sex life.

The last time I got the notion to kiss my wife during sex her face was at least three feet away from me and there was clearly no way to reach her without…exiting. And let me tell ya, folks, I wasn’t exiting a goddamn thing at that point. I was three strokes from the promise land and not even Christ himself was gonna tap me on the shoulder to stop at this point. There’s that one magical stroke that seals the deal and no matter how many dead puppies you think about, no matter how many logarithms you run in your head, that shit’s gonna happen. You just gotta hang on and hope for the best. And pray she gets hers and doesn’t define it as “apology sex” the next day to her friends when you shamefully face the fact that you were…a little quick, to put it kindly…and sincerely apologize for that.

It’s all the belly’s fault. Ain’t nothing been right since the belly came along.