'Babe, let's get jiggy this weekend?' I say, winking.
'Whats that?' he yells, turning his good ear toward me. 'Youve got toothpaste on your moustache. Come here, you duffer.' He spits on his thumb and rubs my lip hard. In any other paragraph, one not about toothpaste, that might be read as quite the erotic act.
Rewind. I'm writing about a sexy weekend I had planned for 
Saturday starts with a slippery shower together, well, was going to be the start. Coconut oil is great for lubricating dry skin, and the floor, resulting in my love interest slipping sideways before the sultry shower shenagins.
"Fuck!" he yells.
'So soon?' I smile, sliding off my Kmart pajamas with the panda bears on them and my XL punk rock t-shirt with turmeric stains on the chest. I don't think he notices anyway as he is half asleep, but there is a fetish for everything and even turmeric has its place in bacchanalia I am sure.
'No,' he yelps. 'Ive fucking stubbed my toe!'. Hmm, change of plans. Perhaps a quick soap of the nether regions to make him forget about it. 'Fucking hot water service isn't working AGAIN!' he swears, and I back away, de soap, and hide under the covers whilst he gets dressed and fusses about outside fixing said hot water. Eventually I think dressing is the best course of action as no one who had the first part of their day start like that want to get back into bed. Coffee and screaming seem the therapeutic course of action of the day and it is too cold for naked beans on toast with Worcestershire sauce as is every Englishman's fancy.
'Maybe later?' I say wryly. He pulls me into a bear hug and mutters a Vegemite toast smelling promise into my ear and promises to buy wine to go with the tacos I have planned. It's the first weekend of the school holidays after all. I have even made the bed.
Image source - included for clickbait reasons only, and mushrooms. Not a drawing of me.
The day passes doing work in the shed, where I help him tidy up his tools and hang some shelves.
'Fancy a screw? I say. He smiles. After twenty years of marriage and much screwing, how could he say no?
I pass him the screwdriver as well.
'I think I should give you a good hammering!' he adds. I pinch his bum through his Hard Yakkas and he nearly falls off the ladder. Nothing like DIY foreplay to get us in the mood for our after dinner shenagins.
Later on the couch, I stretch out seductively. 'Fancy taking off my socks?' I whisper. He turns down Alive season 9, the one where the guy is hunting beaver like no man hunted beaver before, and says: WHAT?
'Do you fancy taking off my socks' I say, less seductively this time, and more a 'wish you were not so deaf' kinda way. I want to add 'and find my beaver' but I don't as I'm slightly irritated by his concentration on a hairy survivalist over me.
'But I haven't got them on!' he says.
Needless to say he slides them off, throwing their Nordic warmth over the couch in the vague direction of the shoe basket by the back door.
'Can I come up your end?' he says, throwing me the extra pillow where it hits my face but luckily doesn't hit my wine.
'You can come anywhere you like', I say coquettishly. Note: this is a word I have never used in the history of posting on Hive. He snuffles behind me appreciatively, kissing my neck and talking French to me, which kinda sounds like 'ooh la la mon cherie' in a nasal accent tinged with a bit of Kentish. Regardless, it's lovely to spoon like this. Perhaps my weekend plans are finally coming true. 'Watch out' he says, pushing against me. 'Anything can happen now!'.
I take the last sip of my wine, pop it on the side table, and snuggle in. At last, the planned evening of sexy time.
Behind me, he's already gently snoring.
But there's always Sunday.
On Sunday, he apologises. 'Sorry babe, I was just so tired!' he says. I get it. It had been a hard term, and not in that way.
'Tonight?' he says, kissing me. After all this time I still swoon at his kisses.
But by the evening, he's coughing and feeling as far away from Sex God as you can imagine. The lines of the COVID test mockingly throw two pink fingers at any plans of a sexy weekend, or what's left of it.
Never mind. There's always next weekend. I might even see if I can find matching socks.
Ooh la la.
*Note: only part of this is true, and I rarely make the bed on weekends, and my nordic socks will never match. However, it does contain many elements of truth, and the closest I'll get to revealing my sex life on Hive, which is, incidentally, far better than this post suggests. For the record, as if I need it - lmao! I also take it entirely out of sequence - it was me that had COVID first, and now he's on the couch, and it's the second weekend of the school holidays. But I try not to let the truth get in the way of a reasonably entertaining story. I hope.
With Love,
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