Four Kinds of Pleasure In One Box

Prologue
He kissed her and rolled off onto his side of the bed.  "So?"
"So?"  She smiled at him.
"It felt just like any other to me."
"Me, too.  Although, for a second there, it got really warm in here."

***********

"Okay, so do you wanna go..."

"Yeah, let's go."

Chloe looked at us, her face expressionless.  "I'm going to go look for something on the other side of the store."

I followed MathMan down the aisle past the tampons and pads.  We stopped before the display of Trojans and Durexes.  Even the organic sheep prophylactics were representing.  They're made of sheep skin, not prophylactics for sheep.  I think.  I haven't researched this, so please don't quote me.

MathMan shrugged.  He grabbed a box with the word KYNG emblazoned across the front.  "What do you think?"

"Definitely appropriate."

He pointed at the box of SKYNs.  "Or maybe?"

We giggled.  Dear me, we're fourteen.  He put the KYNG box back and resumed his serious face.  This was serious business.  Preventing pregnancy and disease is not to be trifled with.  At least that's what we tell our kids.

"Did you see this?  The Pleasure Pack."  He pointed to the less screamingly obvious front of the Trojan box.  The deep purple color of it was nice, non-threatening, quite soothing.

I pulled a box from the shelf, the springy thingy that keeps the boxed items in order snapped into place, as if to draw attention to us.  I shushed it.  "Let's see what this says."  I turned over the package to read the descriptions of what constituted this Pleasure Pack.

I whispered, "Twisted Pleasure. Designed with deep spiral ribs to help stimulate both partners in their most sensitive areas.  Okay, so it's going to stimulate our egos?  That's some pretty powerful latex."

MathMan smirked.  He's a champion smirker, have I told you that?

Her Pleasure was more of the same, but the Trojan people had been broadminded enough to focus purely on the woman's pleasure.  Only, if they were being sincere about a woman's pleasure, they'd make sure it also vacuumed the house, made breakfast and loaded the dishwasher.  The right way.

Intense Ribbed had deep ribs and ultrasmooth lube.  Well now.  Who could argue with that? Shared Pleasure contained warming lubricant because everyone knows how chilly it gets in the vagina/penis areas.  I mean, if you're not careful, you could get frostbite messing around down there. All that talk about going blind?  Lies.  But frostbite? Just be careful.

MathMan continued to look at the vast array of options.  The last time we put this kind of thought into a purchase, we were buying a car that he could wreck sixteen times without totalling it.  "So?"

As with most things, we concluded that the only way to make the choice was by price.  Since there was no white box with black lettering with the simple word Rubbers on it, we decided to go with the Pleasure Pack.  It cost exactly the same as all the rest of the Durex and Trojans and had the same quantity of condoms in the box.  We congratulated ourselves on being such wise consumers.

I hid the box under something in the basket so that Chloe wouldn't be confronted with that aspect of her parents' lives right there in the middle of the store and we met up with her as she came down the main aisle.

"Ready?"

"Yep."  She didn't meet my eyes.

We stood in line and placed our items on the conveyor belt with a bit too much insouciance.  Chloe stood behind us holding a desk lamp she'd found on the clearance end cap.  "Go ahead and put that with our stuff,"  MathMan said. "We can get that for you."

Then we all tried to act like nothing.  We put our hands in our pockets, looked at the ceiling, whistled.

The checker who was getting ready to scan the items, shifted them around, trying to determine if it we were together.  I moved the condom box up to the front of the pile.  "Oh, heh heh, those are ours. Don't want to traumatize her."

The checker looked at Chloe who shrugged.  "Well, at least this isn't as bad as the time when the checker tried to insist that the KY Jelly that belonged to the woman in front of me must be mine."

********

So now you're just dying to try them, aren't you?  Go on, you can admit it.  KY will cost you extra.

See, the Germans are very serious about condoms, too. So stop that snickering right now.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice, I Mean Cats and Men

Art imitates life. Or cats imitate art.  Or in a few months, we might have free kittens for good homes.

Yesterday I got my IUD removed which means MathMan and I must use a new method of birth control.  (Please note the copay for the elective surgery called vasectomy is and always has been out of our range of possibilities, so thanks for the suggestions, but no can do.) 

Considering our past inability to find and use effective methods not involving hormones, this should be fun.  We already have three "unplanned" children.  Unplanned does not equal unwanted (most of the time.)  We have living, breathing, food consuming, mess making evidence that neither coitus interruptus nor a wish and prayer - against, not for - are not, I repeat not, no matter what that guy told you in high school - effective methods of birth control.

And while all of our children were wanted and treated like happy little surprises until they pooped that first time, only one of them was a conscious decision.  On my part, that is.  MathMan just got dragged along for the ride.

Which would explain why, in anticipation of my IUD removal, he reminded me of my determined efforts to have a baby back when I was a silly young thing of twenty-five.  I'd stopped taking the pill because of weight gain and as a youngish married couple, we employed methods ranging from Russian Roulette to Hey, Nice Pearl Necklace! and when we were feeling responsible, condoms.  The Diaphragm and Spermicidal Jelly Incident proved both disastrous and traumatic.  MathMan didn't enjoy having a burning wang and I got woozy watching him standing in the shower trying to rinse out his third eye.  We were both such delicate creatures back then.  Parenthood would solve that.

We made that trip into the Carson Pirie Scott Baby Department where I saw those booties and next thing you know, I'm in Mom Training big time.  I started watching Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street on PBS, purchasing books on why midwives are superior to ob-gyns, quizzing my sister-in-law about her cesarean section and tossing around baby names.  MathMan knew trouble was brewing.  He just didn't realize how much trouble and how sinister it would be until it was too late.

So a couple of days ago, he thought it best to remind me of my past determination or folly, if you will.  "Listen, our anniversary is on Saturday.  Please remember what happened the last time you bit a hole in the condom on our anniversary."

Clever gods took their cue.  Chloe walked by our open bedroom door and glanced in.  "What?"  It's how she likes to open conversations these days.

I blinked at her and turned back to MathMan.  "I remember."

We've agreed that we will not tempt fate.  Abstinence, oral sex or butt sex it is.

Put your money on abstinence.

As if we needed our resolve reinforced, those same clever gods delivered this healthy dose of reality:

Nate went downstairs this morning to find Fiona the Not Exactly a Kitten Anymore standing outside the patio door staring back at him.

Oh.  Dear.

Listen, ever since I was that girl watching the city works guy on the cherry picker coaxing my kitten from the top of the electric pole, I've tried to have indoor cats only.  I can't take the stress of what if.  For weeks after that electric pole drama, I would not let that kitten out and when he did sneak out, I would search the streets, sobbing and calling for him before I would go inside to cry into my pillow and dream of horrible things happening to my precious.  So this kitten, who is yet unfixed because we haven't had the extra money to pay for her surgery, has been kept inside, forcibly maintaining her virtue even as she's been serenaded by the neighborhood Toms.

When the urge got to be too much, she'd bump and grind at our indoor male cats.  Since they no longer recognize the need, they responded with uncomfortable looks, searching for a quick escape from her mewling advances.

Last night she got out.  I believe she sneaked out while Chloe and her friend were coming or going. Thankfully, or maybe not, Fiona survived her nocturnal prowlings, but I doubt her virtue remains intact.  Upon her reentry into the house, all the other Pussies for Peace took defensive postures.  It was Crouching Tabby, Flattened Maine Coon Ear. Both male cats sniffed suspiciously around her backside. For her part, she acted a bit bored as she picked spider web from her whiskers.

Someone hissed.  It could have been me, but I think it was our alpha male tabby.

Bad Girl Fiona gave him a look.

"Hey, I offered.  You weren't interested, you eunuch," she said between bites of her food.  She was ravenous.

Before.

And the Rocket's Red Glare......

(Note: This post contains real life and imagined sexually explicit information about middle-aged married people getting it on. If you are squeamish or inclined to think ewwwww!, then I suggest you move along. Oh, and if you happen to be a child of mine, please not that this is pure fantasy. Daddy and I only did it three times. We don't remember it and I would definitely not blog about it. There now. Mama loves you. Shall I call the therapist and make an appointment?)

He told her how he loved to watch her after she showered. He watched her rub the lotion into her skin. The motion was so sensual, the scent of cocoa butter in the air, he watched from the shower as she spread the lotion on her arms, across her breasts, over her rounded belly. It didn't matter how long he'd known her or how many times he'd seen her naked, he still got a thrill when she stretched her leg, with an utter lack of self-consciousness, up onto the vanity to rub the lotion into her calves. He could just glimpse the pink recess that still made him stiff.

That morning they were sharing that space as usual, but there was a distinct electricity between them. Their affair of so many years, a love life of stolen moments, snatched from the clutching grasp of the mundane - bills, jobs, children, pets, house. They had to find those moments when the obligations of daily life could be swept aside, leaving space in the mind for desire.

On that particular morning, luck was with them. Two of their three children were out of the house. The third was occupied in the Saturday morning ritual of cartoons and sugary cereal. Over the sounds of some science report on NPR, they bantered with each other until she shocked him by turning to him and kissing him hard. Before he could recover from it, she was on her knees in front of him.

Because she wasn't such a nubile young thing anymore and the tile bathroom floor was cold and hard, it didn't take long before she suggested that they move to the bed. Once there, they went through the motions of a couple who know well how to please one another. Although new sex is exciting in a breathtaking, heartracing sort of way, sex with someone you've been with for years can have the amazing ability of reminding you of the passion you once felt for your beloved.

Mmmmm. Ooooh. Yeahhhhh. Right there. Mmmmm. Like that.

And then - of course - there was a gentle rapping on the door. It was punctuated by a cat who only partially believed that one needed a thumb to turn a doorknob. He was anxiously rattling the knob while the child knocked. Such sweet teamwork. They weren't going to stop until they were acknowledged.

"Yes, we'll be out in a minute!" she called.

"But what are you doing?" came the little voice.

In unison: "We're getting ready to go!"

And then he added, "Now get away from the door and take the cat with you."

They could hear her harrumphing back down the stairs. She was ten, after all, and could figure out that they were up to no good in there and that it included nudity and private parts. Disgusting. The cat offered two more forlorn rattles of the knob and then gave up, as well.

Now this couple knows each other very well. Momentum had been lost. Could it be regained? During the break in the action, a part of her mind had noted that the bathroom radio was still playing NPR and a promo had just announced that Car Talk would be coming up next. Car Talk? No. That would not do. She could not see herself climaxing to Click and Clack, the Tappit Brothers. Not these days anyway.

"While you're up," she smiled at her husband as he came back from checking to make sure the bedroom door was locked, "could you turn on the t.v. and turn off the radio?"

He was happy to accommodate her. She watched him move around the room and smiled at how handsome he still was. He touched the power button on the television and Mussorgsky's Pictures at An Exhibition flooded the room. They'd fallen asleep to the satellite television music channel that played pops music and short orchestral pieces. He had a wicked habit of looking as though he were asleep and then announcing within just a few notes of a piece, the composer's name and the title of the piece. A son of a music director, he was raised with classical music in his house. She, on the other hand, had a mother who listened to the local AM station's Swap Shop in the evening and the obituaries in the morning. With considerable effort, she might be able to tell Dolly Parton from Loretta Lynn, but she didn't know Rimsky from Korsakov.

He moved back to the bed and hovered over here where she lay waiting. They kissed tenderly at first then letting it build into something deeper, harder, more urgent. These moments seemed so few and far between lately. After a long day of herding cats or wrangling teens, neither of them were terribly interested in sex. Okay - that's a lie. He was. She was. But it just seemed like too much work. It required too much intimacy, too much concentration. The brain - free of the stresses of the day - was an important component to good sex.

He slid down her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. She gasped quietly (little ears) as he reminded her of where they were before being so rudely interrupted by the child with the "OMG, my parents might be having sex!" radar.

She closed her eyes and let her mind focus on the delicious sensation. The room was quiet. She moved in time with him. Mmmmm. Yeahhhhh. Right there. She could feel herself being pulled toward the edge. Close now.

Her eyes snapped open. She lay there, trying not to listen, instead trying to refocus on what he was doing, on that feeling of build up that was just there - the beautiful explosion of light and color behind her closed eyes, the rush of the endorphins. It had just been in sight. She could feel herself moving toward toward it when.......when, the song changed and the beautiful, mournful Pictures at an Exhibition gave way to the patriotic strains of God Bless America.

She tried not to laugh. She tried again to refocus. She shifted slightly and he changed his pace. Mmmm. That was nice. Oh yes. There. She tried to tune out the rousing stanzas and banish the images of baseball stadiums, waving flags and 9/11 that went skittering across her mind's eye.

She was just getting her groove back when the room went quiet again. Ah, yes, now perhaps something more lovely, more sensuous or even something less bombastic would come on next. She had no more thought these thoughts and imagined finally getting there when, wouldn't you know it, the one song that she could actually name came floating over her soft moans.

She opened her eye to confirm her musical acumen. Indeed, she was correct. It was Dvorak's Humoresque. Also one of the tunes mangled on the violin by Jack Benny, a comedian who had given them many a shared laugh over the years. They loved his old radio and television shows.

Obviously, this orgasm was going to be more difficult than most. She briefly considered announcing her knowledge of the piece, but she knew that once they started laughing, that would kill the mood and the sound of laughter was almost as big a draw to the child as were the hushed rustlings behind the door. If she heard, she'd be back at the door demanding more explanations. Kids hate it when you laugh without them. They hate it more when you laugh without them and you refuse to explain what you're laughing about.

She closed her eyes once more and tried not to think of the phrase "Just close your eyes and think of England." Because that really wasn't the case. She wasn't enduring - she was enjoying. England need not get involved.

She stopped herself from giggling and figured that the third time was the charm. Focus, focus......