When you’ve been in a relationship for a long time it can be a challenge to get turned on spontaneously. Gone are the days when you see him in a super sexy plaid button up shirt (oh yeah) and think, “I need to get me some of THAT!” Instead, since you’ve been living with him for two-and-a-half years and you’re the one in charge of the laundry, you see him in that shirt and think, “Geez, it’s been months since I rung that one through the wash – how can I not smell its stench from across the room?”

However, regardless of the absence of I-want-to-jump-your-bones juice, you know that for the good of your relationship you should at least make some kind of an effort. And you do. But sometimes, despite your best intentions, your initiated sexy-time just doesn’t go as planned. Take last night for instance. I walk up to my dude wearing fuzzy flannel owl pajamas (they’re comfortable and I love them), kiss him deeply on the lips and ask in my best smoldering sex kitten voice: “Want to get intimate?”
“You know,” he responds thoughtfully, “it kind of ruins the mood when you ask me if I want to be intimate. Why not let it happen naturally?”
“Ummm, because then we’ll both end up falling asleep to The Colbert Report on the couch again?”
“Good point. Well can you at least change into something sexier?”
I resume my smoldering sex kitten voice. “Is this better?” I say as I slide off the owl bottoms.
My boyfriend raises his eyebrow. “And the top…”
“But I’m cold! Come to bed with me and when we’re securely under the covers I’ll take off the top.”
“But then I won’t be able to see you!”
“We’ll leave the light on. It’ll be all good.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, giving in at last.

A few minutes later and I think we’re doing pretty good. We’ve done the obligatory making out (always nice) and now he’s sliding down there to give my miss’ some cunnilingus lovin’. I sigh in relief when he doesn’t mention my Amazon woman hairy legs, which I haven’t shaved in weeks. (I have light hair so I can get away with this. The trick is sticking it out until I pass the prickly stage and then as long as said boyfriend doesn’t see my legs in bright light or stroke them against the grain, they feel baby-kitten soft. Prrow.)

So he starts doing his thing, and it’s supposed to be awesome and hot and sexy, but all I can think about is how much it tickles. I’m trying so hard convey the appropriate ooohhh, ahhhh, mmmmm sounds, without breaking into a fit of giggles, but I am unsuccessful.

“What?” He asks defensively, “Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Sorry honey, I’m super ticklish tonight. But I’m ready now, lets try again!”

But this time I’m thinking about how I’m not allowed to laugh which makes me need to laugh harder and soon I’m convulsing on the bed in a fit of silent giggles. Now he’s laughing too and he’s tickling me in all new places (even though we’ve had explicit talks about how armpits are off limits) and then I’m scratching him in defense and he’s yelling “STOP THAT!” and we both end up lying on the bed together panting and naked. Anyone who wandered in would definitely think we just had fabulous, mind-blowing sex — wouldn’t we fool them good!

“Why don’t I just lube up and we can go for it!” I suggest.
“Yeah,” he says noncommittally, “Why not.”
So I shuffle over on top of him, lube up both of our Fancy Nancy’s (PS no one tell him that I referred to his penis as a Fancy Nancy), and we’re in the game.

Silence. I’m going up and down, up and down. He’s making a funny face. Now I’m fighting the giggles again. Now he looks at me and he’s fighting the giggles. Now his Fancy Nancy has gotten distracted.

“Uh oh.” I say. “Trouble down below. What now?”
He ponders. “Maybe we could try the reverse cowgirl?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s a musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber,” he replies with a totally straight face. Now we’re both laughing hysterically and back at square one.

Finally we collect ourselves, I climb on reverse cowgirl style (resisting the urge to start belting out the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack) and we have a satisfactory go of it. I tell him to go ahead and cum, as I just don’t think it’s going to happen for me tonight.

I’m lying in his nook afterwards and we’re very near sleep when he interrupts my own thoughts. “Hey,” he asks, genuinely curious, “when was the last time you shaved your legs?”

Busted.