Friday, February 24, 2012

Mission To Mars

If you want proof that men are different from women (because you've been sitting around waiting for it - just go with me here): consider my husband's libido.

His sex drive is like the post office motto. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor... there is nothing that counts as a potential downer. No pun intended. His libido is a completely separate entity, undeterred by such human fallacies as... well, any human fallacies.

Case in point. We watch a movie of such disturbing content I make him hold my hand from the living room to the bedroom after it's over, because I am certain something might get me on my way up the stairs if he does not. I cower under the covers, traumatized, in need of post traumatic stress therapy at the least and quite possibly a strong sedative so I don't lie awake in fear for the remainder of the decade (it's only 2012, you know).

And he's got The Look. You know, that Look, the one that immediately precedes The Hand. You know, The Hand that reaches across the bed to offer seemingly innocent things like a massage, only two minutes in you recall that your husband doesn't really offer massages, ever. THAT Hand.

Me: Seriously, dude?
Him: What? (massage continues)
Me: I'm a little concerned that you could have watched what we just watched and still arrived where you are right now. You're like, a BMW, with the zero to sixty in two point five seconds and all. Did you not SEE that movie?
Him: What? I'm not thinking about the movie.
Me: So you are able to process all that in the time it takes to brush our teeth?
Him (with uncertainty): Yes?

Really, if I admit it, I'm just jealous. For me, foreplay can literally be tied to actions that occurred three years ago. I'm just now remembering that in 2009 you didn't tell your mother to pepper her roasted potatoes when you KNOW I prefer roasted potatoes to have pepper, and therefore what I need is to talk about how you're not meeting my needs before I can give myself to you.

For him, foreplay begins the instant someone begins undressing, for whatever purpose they might be undressing. In fairness, and in his defense, my husband cooks and cleans and brings me glasses of wine and rubs my feet and does all those other things that a guy should do if he wants to get lucky later. Problem is, I tend to think that horrific movies and bad news over the telephone or, you know, a mild flu, negates these actions and puts us back to square one.

My husband does not return to square one. In fact, I am pretty sure he hasn't been at square one, or first base, for decades. He lives with the assumption of and the desire for a home run. What happened before he gets into bed is irrelevant.

And even as I give him the stink eye and wonder if he should talk to a good psychologist, I admit it: being go for launch at any given moment would be a neat problem to have.

Except when you're the launch pad five minutes after wishing you could rip your eyes out from a movie. I'm just saying.


L.Duncan@Home23DuncanBoys said...

Now I'm wondering if all men are like that! I can be sick as I don't know what and mine would be "interested". I could just be finishing up cleaning puke up off the floor and he would be interested! It is a nice problem to have, though. I just don't get it! Nice post:)

btw, are you comfortable with me reading your posts on this blog? I enjoy them, but not sure if they are your private thoughts or not.

Champagne on Tuesdays said...

Quite comfortable - no worries. I never put anything here that I don't intend to be publicly read. I'd love more readers, but I lack the discipline to update regularly, so I'm happy for any readers I get! :)