For once, I know exactly what to write about this week's topic. For once, I have a truly relevant tale to tell. So grab a cup of joe, pull up a chair, and be prepared to listen good.
Sex or love? Let me tell you the first thing that popped into my tiny little brain when I heard about this topic. Some years back, maybe about 9 years ago, the Hubster and I had an incident. Back then, we were hip-deep in a battle against infertility. We'd been trying for a couple of years to get me pregnant with absolutely no success. After the first year on our own, we went to see a doctor and began the agonizing process of tests and treatments and waiting and seeing and hoping and wailing when good ol' Auntie Flow showed up cycle after cycle like clockwork.
Nothing, I mean nothing, kills a couple's sex life like infertility. For months, I was poked and prodded, tested and scrutinized. I had so much blood drawn, my arms looked like the arms of a junkie. I underwent so many pelvic exams, I seriously considered having a speculum permanently installed in my vagina. There were ultrasounds and biopsies and once a very painful test where radioactive dye was shot through my uterus all the way up into my ovaries. Screaming agony, I tell ya.
But that wasn't the worst of it. Oh no, by far what killed our love life was the scheduling. My menstrual cycle had to be tracked, monitored and recorded. That meant every morning when the alarm went off, before I even got out of bed, I had to stick a thermometer in my mouth to check my basal body temperature. If there was a half degree, or even a quarter degree, of deviation from normal, I had to trudge into the bathroom, still blind with sleep, and pee in a cup. My aim is not the best first thing in the morning, so that made the procedure even more fun. Once I had my cup of pee, I had to stick an ovulation test strip in it to see if my hormones were surging in preparation for my monthly egg drop. Depending upon the results of that test, we either could or couldn't have sex for the next week. The time period within five or so days of ovulation was a no-sex zone. The only way sperm was supposed to get into my coochie during that time was via catheter for an inter-uterine insemination.
Of course, the rest of my cycle wasn't much better for sex. I was on hormone therapy to help boost my egg production. That made me all sorts of weepy and bitchy and unpleasant to be around. Though Hubster put up with all of it like the saint he is, I just couldn't bear to be touched. It was like being on permanent PMS overload. I hated it.
So one month, we decided to take a break. We told our doctor we were going to look into seeing a specialist, and until then we were just going to say "Fuck it!" to all the testing and the temperature taking and hormone surge tracking and other crap we'd been dealing with for two years. We were just going to be us for a month or two, husband and wife, a normal couple with maybe a normal sex life. Well, what was normal for us anyway.
It took a couple weeks of being free of the hormone therapy and all that other nonsense, plus a Saturday morning of sleeping very, very late. Ah, I remember that morning well. I woke up feeling rested and refreshed. Warm sunlight spilled through the cracks in the blinds, turning the room a soft, dreamy golden color. When it hit the Hubster, it gave him that special glow that made me think, "Jesus H. Christ! It's been how long since we've had sex?! We got to get busy!! NOW!!"
So at it we went, having the best hot sweaty monkey sex we'd had in ages. And man, it was good, I mean real good. I was hanging on the edge of the bed, shrieking at the top of my lungs, probably scaring the shit out of the neighbors and their dog. The Hubster was going at me like a mean green machine, and when I hit the big O, it was more like the big "OH MY GOD, DON'T EVER EVER STOP!!" It was the longest, bestest multiple screaming orgasm I'd ever had. I came and came and came until the Hubster came.
And then the poor man's eyeballs rolled back up in his head and he collapsed on top of me, dead.
Yes, people, I killed the Hubster. He came and went. And he just lay there on me like a dead weight, pun intended. Now the Hubster and I are the same height, and he only weighs about 35 lbs more than me, but at the time he died, I was in a rather... interesting position, shall we say? And him lying all slumped over on me had me more folded up than a half-finished origami crane.
At first, I thought this was just some kind of joke, him collapsing on me like, that like I'd worn him out. I laughed a little, then started complaining as I began to lose the feeling in my lower legs which were somewhere up behind my ears. I wriggled around a bit until I could finally look the Hubster in the eyes to tell him to knock it off. That was when I saw his face. It was waxy and sickly white, and his eyes were all glassy and empty. Finally realizing something was wrong, I did what any sensible person would do in that situation. I freaked the hell out.
I screamed and thrashed and screamed and struggled and then screamed and writhed until I finally managed to get out from under my darling dead spouse. Then I did the next thing any sensible person would do. I screamed some more and started slapping the Hubster's face.
"DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! WAKE UP!! WAKE UP!! WAKE UUUUUUUUUUUP!!!!"
You see, at that moment, my entire future flashed before my eyes. It was a future without the Hubster in it and it was not at all pretty because I depended on my darling man for a lot of things, like...
- Tech support and computer repairs. The reason I married a genius was so that I would never have to call some stranger and pay them to fix my computer. At that point, this arrangement had been working smoothly for 8 years. I sure as hell didn't want to change things now!
- The mortgage payment. Sure, I put 15 grand down when we bought the house, but that was all I could do with my weak-ass paycheck. I needed the Hubster to make the monthly payments so I could keep a nice cozy roof over my pointed little head.
- Food. I knew two things about grocery shopping and cooking meals, and those two things were Jack and Shit. Now Jack may be a hottie, but neighter he nor Shit are helpful come dinner time.
- Yard work. To this day, I still do not know how to start our lawn mower, and we live in a home owners association for god's sake! How would I survive if I had to cut my own grass?!
Yes, folks, these were the desperate thoughts running through my panick-striken little brain as I kept slapping my husband's face. After about the seventh or eighth whallop, he finally resurrected, lifted his head, looked at me and said, "What happened?"
"OH MY GOD! YOU DIED! YOU COMPLETELY, TOTALLY DIED ON ME!! AND MY COMPUTER'S BROKE! YOU CAN'T DIE WHEN MY COMPUTER'S NOT WORKING RIGHT!!"
"Really? I died? That's weird..."
And then his eyes rolled back up in his head and he died again!
Well now I was pissed. It was bad enough he had to die on me the first time and completely scare the crap out of me. Now he was just being mean. So I grabbed the Hubster by the shoulders and started shaking him until I could hear his teeth rattle in his skull and I resurrected him again.
"Quit dying on me!" I screeched.
"Okay... okay... sorry..." he mumbled while I propped him upright against a pile of pillows.
I took a few moments to calm down and check his pulse. When it looked like he was planning to not die a third time, I heaved a sigh of relief.
"Don't you ever do that to me again!" I said.
"Yeah, I won't. Hey, what time is it?"
"Almost eleven o'clock," I said.
"Huh. I guess I should get ready for karate class then."
"Oh HELL no! You are not dying on me twice and then trotting off to karate class!" I jumped off the bed and started pulling on clothing. "Your ass is going to the emergency room right now!"
And his ass did go to the emergency room, and the rest of him with it. I got him dressed, piled him into the car, and sped off toward the nearest hospital, where I had to explain to the admissions clerk what had happened to my spouse on that beautiful Saturday morning. And then I had to tell the nurse who checked his vitals. And then I had to explain it to the doctor who was on call that weekend. And then to the tech who ran the EKG that the doctor ordered. And then on Monday I had to explain the whole thing once again to our family physician who called wanting to know just why my twenty-something husband who was in the pink of health had gone to the emergency room on a Saturday to get an EKG. And of course I had to explain to my parents how their son-in-law had almost bought the farm, and his parents...
Wait, did I tell my in-laws? Hmm... I can't recall.
But I did tell all my friends, and now I'm telling all of you because in light of this week's topic, sex or love, I think it's very important that we all learn something from this story. And that lesson is...
Do not attempt to kill the person you love with hot sweaty monkey sex unless you are prepared to live with the consequences!! Okay? We all got that? Any questions?
I thought not. So clean the coffee off your computer screen and go back to your usual routine. I'm going to go wake up the Hubster now.