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Just like when you buy a new car and suddenly you start seeing that same car everywhere, I’m meeting people who are having way better sex, way more often than me.  The worst is going out for drinks with women who openly discuss all the fun, freaky sex they’re having, while I sit quietly, sipping my wine, trying not to make eye contact.

Where did my desire to fuck my husband fuck off to?

According to women on the playground, I should be completely turned on by the way he stands in line at the Rec Centre to sign our kids up for enriching spring break camps. Or by the fact that he makes their lunches. And drops them at school every morning so I can get to work on time.

“Honestly, is there anything he doesn’t do?” Women with deadbeat husbands always ask.

Yes. He doesn’t know when to shut up.  My husband is so involved, he actually believes he’s entitled to voice his opinion about every. Little. Thing.  And even though I have patiently explained to him many times that he is delusional, he simply won’t listen. And now instead of wanting to fuck him, I’d rather just smack him upside the head.

During my (excuse me – our) first pregnancy, he suddenly became an expert in prenatal vitamins. He researched – the same way he does when buying new electronic equipment and replaced mine with ones he’d bought on-line. One of our earliest fights was over my cravings for sushi. “It’s my body,” I yelled, trying to grab the takeout bag from his hand. “It’s my baby too,” he exclaimed. Impossible to argue with his logic, but it pissed me off.  

Now he offers his expert opinion on how to sort laundry, or the cost of cheese. “What do you think the coupons on the fridge are for?”  

“My parents had an amazing relationship,” he yelled during one of our more heated exchanges. “Why can’t we?”

“That’s because,” I scoffed. “Your father knows his place and it isn’t lecturing about the dangers of too much tv on developing brains after his wife turned it on so she could have some peace while trying to make dinner.”

Talking dirty is replaced with endless negotiations and it’s so bloody boring.  For him too, obviously and now I’m also a passive aggressive shrew.

The battle to convince him that I work as hard as he does, is one I’ve been fighting since the kids were born. To illustrate this, I will tell you a story that my husband has begged and pleaded I not share. He says I totally misunderstood what he meant, but I remember very clearly being driven home from the hospital after 12 hours of hard labour and him asking me, “What’s for dinner?”

I didn’t speak directly to him for a week.  

While he’s busy driving the kids to swim practices, I’m equally busy keeping them lice-free and ensuring they’ve got friends and that they’re invited to birthday parties. I read the school notices and make sure they’re keeping up in math. I’m the one running around picking up after them all, but my husband only notices that it’s been awhile since I’ve given him a decent blow job (without teeth).  

This fear of growing sexual apathy, prematurely aging me, turning me into a frustrated, cranky terror jump starts a desire for real change. As always, the Universe conspires to assist my efforts, by sending an email advertising an Incredible One-Time sale on lingerie at the Bay.

On the Clearance Rack, I find just the thing: a naughty looking corset and pair of barely-there panties. 75% off! Done.

Walking home, I devise a little fantasy:  I’ll make dinner in a huff and order my husband to give the kids a bath and put them to bed- which will definitely put him in a bad mood.  And while he’s grumbling away in the bathroom, sending me some hateful thoughts, I’ll quickly change into my new outfit. Then I’ll call him. He’ll stomp out, anticipating another unreasonable order and I’ll be waiting, looking very, very hot.

“I’ve been watching you all night,” I’ll say suggestively. “Your wife is a real bitch.  Hurry up. I want to fuck you before she gets home.”

I imagine him racing through his duties, while I light some candles, make the bed and arrange an assortment of oils and toys for a night of wild abandon.  

I can barely contain my excitement.

When I arrive home, my husband is waiting for me by the door, dancing from one foot to the other. “The Bay was having a sale!” he says, grabbing my hand, leading me to the bedroom.  He gestures to the wall across from our bed, where he has mounted a large flat screen tv. I can see he’s taken care with this. Even the packaging has been cleaned up and taken down to recycling. “Now we can watch sports highlights in bed… and movies too,” he adds quickly, suddenly considering my preferences. An unspoken, but heartfelt intention passes between us. “See what I did…For us.”’

He kisses me and heads off to the kitchen.

That night, I tuck my outfit, tags still on, into the back of the closet. I pull on track pants and cuddle in beside my husband who is already cheerfully watching highlights from the US Open.  There is love here, I can feel it. This isn’t something I want to toss out or blow up, but I am determined to shake us out of our rut – as soon as I figure out how…

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