OK, admit it. Your marriage could use a little juice. A little tap on the accelerator of love. How do I know this? Because I have my ear to the ground and my nose to the wind and my mouth to the top of a Coors Light. Like the other night, a friend of mine told me that he had cuddled up to his wife, and said, “You wanna have some steamy sex tonight?” And she said, “Sure, who’s coming over?”
Now if you are a guy, that is not something you want to hear from your Spousy Wousy. So I would like to offer a little bit of marital advice to all the men out there. (You women can read along, too, if you promise not to use this information in your divorce hearing.)
OK, here we go. You’ve been married for a while. The last sexual conquest you had, other than your wife, was a female Sherpa on Mount Everest. Yes, it was exciting getting her out of that big, furry Eskimo outfit, and yes, you enjoyed her moaning your name in Urdu. But that was a long time ago. You are now married. You are not bored. You love your wife. You still find her romantically pursuable to engage in naughty stuff. But you need a little kick.
A while back I thought I’d jack things up a notch, so I suggested that my dearly beloved get flat-out jay-naked and wrap herself in Saran Wrap and meet me at the front door when I came home from work. I know this is kind of trite. It’s been done before. But it had never been done for me. So I was really jazzed. And I rushed home that evening and knocked on the front door, and my Wifey Poo answered the door, and she was stark naked! Of course, it might have been a little sexier if she hadn’t wrapped herself in aluminum foil. I remember it well. All she said was, “We were out of Saran Wrap.”
Another approach you might want to try is using sex toys and marital aids. You might want to try that. Not me. I’m too afraid. I know if I showed up some night in the bedroom with a whip and wearing German boots and running some battery-operated object that whirred, I would not get the desired affect. I just know my beloved would be laughing so damn hard she would spit up on her flannel nightgown and keep slapping her knee. Who needs that?
Here’s something that is not quite as extreme as whirring things. This is a killer. You should pay me for this one. Please don’t tell anybody you heard it here. (I could lose my poetic license.)
When you get in bed with your Loin Mate, just nuzzle her a little, and be playful, and put your finger on her cheek and let it run down her neck and then let your finger drift to the top of her shoulder and then on to that upper chest region where it is OK to touch without permission and then stop, and arch your eyebrows, twice, and say, “Darling, I would like to spice up our sex life a little.”
Hopefully, she is not laughing and says coyly or with slight alarm, “How?” And then you reach down and grab the little red and white tin container you have put on the nightstand and you sprinkle some cinnamon right there on her upper chest freedom zone. And as she is looking puzzled, you say, “Cinnamon. Spice. Cinnamon is a spice. Spice up our love life. Get it? Get it?” And if she tries to dial 9-1-1, say, “Columbus sailed over here for spice. Just do it for Columbus. Please.”
OK, OK, maybe you want something that is a tad more subtle than sprinkling cinnamon on your Matey Watey’s Chesty Westy. May I suggest a Mystery Evening of Love? Yes, I have done this many times. You just arrange the evening ahead of time but you don’t tell your wife where you are going. It’s that damn simple. Even you can do it.
No, you can’t go to a sports event. Geez. And don’t go to your gentleman’s club and say, “Uh, Destiny, this is my wife.” Don’t do that. That’s not mystery, that’s masochism. Other than that, most things are open. It doesn’t have to be expensive. A dinner at a restaurant in a different town and a movie. Maybe go see a play in some little playhouse where there are more actors than audience members.
There are a lot of mysterious things you can plan. Just announce it as a Mystery Evening of Love and you are set, baby. Just don’t tell her ahead of time what it is. You don’t want her to know she’ll be eating at Denny’s in Temple City and then seeing a movie with Adam Sandler in it.
My best Mystery Evening of Love was a few years ago. I told Marge ahead of time to expect a mystery night and she was maybe not all a-twitter, but pretty much semi-a-twitter. When the big night finally arrived, we got in the car and headed out the Ventura Freeway. For an hour and 15 minutes! Marge kept asking me where I was taking her. I kept pretending I remembered where it was.
We finally got to the venue and to reveal the mystery; we were there to see a Tom Jones concert in Thousand Oaks. And hey, Marge loved it. When old Tom was belting out “What’s New Pussycat?” Marge was answering him. And when he sang “She’s a Lady,” Marge whispered to me, “Since we aren’t staying in a motel, would you mind if I gave Tom our house key?”
I told her, “If you ever do that, I will never sprinkle cinnamon on your upper chest again.”
Thursday, November 19, 2009
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