In bed I’m soft. Demure.
Enticing as Brigitte Bardot in And God Created Woman, with doe-like come-hither glances and marzipan hair.
I’m as tremulous as the surface of tea in a cup, perched on a plate, balanced on a stick, spun by a juggler wearing nothing but support hose and a Harlequin’s hat, while riding a unicycle on a stage full of untrained African elephants in heat.
I’m the kind of woman who succumbs to the whims of her man with nary a complaint, a kvetch, a criticism or any form of cuckoldry.
In short, I’m an angel.
Yes. I prevaricate. I’m a bossy pants in the sack.
Turn left. Twist right.
Must you make that sound that reminds me of two ferrets killing each other in our crawl spaces?
Warmer, colder, too mucky, why are your nails so sharp?
I prefer you hairy. Can’t you shave? Move your elbow, move your elbow. I think I cracked a rib!
Where is your tongue? Do you have a tongue? I know it was there last week. Have you been gambling? Did a Ukraine collector cut out your tongue? You taste like you’ve been drinking milk. Go brush your tongue.
My husband has the patience of those guys waiting for Godot.
Who were those guys? I’m googling.
“An absurdist play about two vagrants waiting for the vague presence of a man named Godot. To occupy the time they philosophize, sleep, argue, sing, exercise, swap hats, and consider suicide.”
Suicide?! Please don’t kill yourself Henry. I’ll change! I’ll be as pliable as a gymnast wearing one of those BDSM gag things. What are they called?
Googling — They’re called, Ball gags!!
But guess what? There is a way to ball-gaglessly shut me up and turn me on.
It’s when my man has finally had enough of me micro-managing our copulatory exertions and he becomes … wait for it … grouchy.
He’s so hot when he’s grouchy.
And sometimes this evolves into him being a little bit mean. Not of the call 911 variety, but more along the lines of, I had some hot sexy moves coming your way, but I am cutting you off lady!
He’s had it. He wants to be left alone. He rolls to his side of the bed and turns his back.
Suddenly his back has never been sexier. He emits the musk of Indifference, which titillates me. Now, I must please him.
We’re back in the Neolithic era where women were good for two things; starting fires and sex.
Does it make me a bad feminist to admit this thrills me?
That I don’t want to be romanced or placed on a pedestal, or worshipped? I want to be used solely for his sexual gratification, then tossed aside.
In bed, I don’t want to be in charge. I don’t want to make the decisions. I do enough of that in life! I want to be told what to do. In short, I want him to dominate me.
And because I’m with a man who loves and is committed to me, it’s safe. (Although I pretend we don’t know each other and his name is Raoul and he’s actually very dangerous.)
I know that eventually my man and I will wash back to shore where I’m the alpha to his beta and all is right in our domestic universe, but in that moment I want him to be a selfish bastard.
In the words of the inimitable Miranda Hobbes of Sex and The City:
“Why is it that what’s unacceptable in life is so freaking hot in bed?”
If you liked this article you’re going to love Shannon’s book, “Married Sex: Fact & Fiction.”