I first met Svetlana and her husband Magnus at my friend Caprice’s Family Fourth of July pool party. Despite the one hundred-plus attendees, when the couple entered the party a hush descended.
Svetlana brushed the underbelly of six feet high. Her legs could have been scaffolding for the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. Her lips were pillowy enough to float fifteen Cuban refugees all the way to Florida. Her green eyes smoldered the paint off every wall she passed. And don’t get me started on Magnus.
Okay, get me started on Magnus. Byronic, golden curls, eyes the same sparkling blue as a Juneau, Alaskan glacier, a smile Bobby Sherman or (if you’re not as ancient as I) Justin Bieber would kill for and a 21-gun salute on each bicep.
All I could think was: Please make a sex tape.
Cut to: Two months later Svetlana and I are invited by our mutual friend to a ladies’ night out. After bolstering myself with a Grey Goose martini and several slices of pita bread slathered with slabs of hummus I turned to Svetlana and said, “You and Magnus must have hot sex, may Henry and I join you?”
Okay. I didn’t really ask that last part. But in response to my assertions that their sex life must be hot Svetlana replied, “Not really.”
“But Magnus has all those muscles and a cleft chin and you have no cellulite and your hair is black silk I’d like to have woven into an evening shrug.”
“It’s all relative,” said Svetlana stifling a yawn. “When Magnus gets home from work and wants sex I tell him he has to take a shower. He’s a sous chef at a fish restaurant and he comes home smelling like gutted herring. But Magnus hates night time showers, so he goes into the bathroom, turns on the shower water and pretends he’s taking a shower when he’s really just dousing himself everywhere with Drakkar Noir.
“Then he comes in the bedroom and says he showered and I yell, ‘Liar! You just doused yourself with Drakkar Noir and it only masks the fish stench. It only masks it!’ Then he yells, ‘Shrew! You know showering at night messes up my Ph balance!’ And then we have lame, smelly sex. Also, I’d really like to have sex with a black man.”
To which I reply, “Why do all of my heroes end up having feet of clay?”
Cut to: Last week I’m having lunch with my former roommate and dear friend Maggie. Maggie’s hair started turning gray when she was 25, she wears glasses and brushes the underbelly of 5′ 4″. Her husband Connor is also bespectacled, mostly bald and currently sports a bit of extra padding in his mid-section.
When I asked Maggie how she and Connor were doing – and really I just wondered how their health was holding up since we’re all over forty – she said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re having the hottest sex of our marriage! Connor just seems to have so much stamina lately!”
The shit-eating grin on her face was enviable.
Maggie and Connor are rounding the corner on their twelfth year of marriage and I found out a few months back that Svetlana and Magnus got divorced. She’s currently shacked up with a “black guy” and I have a sneaking suspicion their sex may not be any better than the sex she had with her Drakkar Noir husband. Turns out hot sex isn’t only for the genetically blessed.
I’d love to know how you keep your sex life spicy! Here are some hot couples who must have lame sex.
Tips appreciated. You can simply put them in my virtual g-string via PayPal. However, comments and shares also make my day. And don’t forget to enlist in my reading boot camp in the action box below. You’ve gotta keep your laugh muscles in shape! xo S