“Well honey, go find some porn and get in the mood. I am ovulating this very second,” and she kicked my naked, tired body, out of the bed. “It’s not my fault you decided to extend your curfew on a night when my fertility level is spiking. It’s go time!”
It was 11:30 p.m. and I had just got home from a regular Thursday night mountain bike ride. This particular balmy August summer night, I rode three loops around the formidable Potawatomi trail. I took a quick dip in the lake to refresh my sweat and dirt caked body. Then I met up with the boys in the parking lot to swill some gritty Bell’s Oberon ales and swap stories as the sun set into the forest, (birthing) the stars. Four punishing hours of riding, a couple of beers, and an hour drive home is a formula for sleep. However, the last few months my wife and I had been attempting to (breed) our first child.
I assumed I would be going home to a work induced, coma-like-sleeping wife, with Fox News droning on the tube about depressing current events. No such luck during the procreation season. The temperature-based fertility chart was lying on the kitchen table with a little sticky note attached reading, “I’m waiting upstairs,” signed with a happy face sketch and naked female stick figure (do stick figures ever have clothes on?)…
Normally, I would have stripped on the spot, streaked the house, and bounded up the stairs. However, that night I was truly exhausted. I crept Ninja-like, up the stairs and opened the bedroom door without it creaking (tip: spray “Tri-Flo” on bedroom door hinges). I floated across the hardwood floor, observing the dog, asleep in the corner for signs of disturbance. I slithered into my side of the bed. My wife did not even budge. “Yes! Undetected!’ I quietly celebrated in my mind. Now all I had to do was slip under the sheet, roll into my right-side sleeping position, and my path was set for dreamland.
After a few minutes, her freshly shaved leg grazed my thigh, “Not so fast Mr. Sneaky Pants. Thought you could sneak into bed past a woman in heat? I could smell you coming five miles away!” she said with a tigress type purr. This should be a dream come true--coming home to a naked wife who wants nothing more than sex!!! “I’m not in the mood baby, I um, ahhh, have a headache or something” I was astonished at myself for the (diarrhea) coming out of my mouth. I have never used that line, and never thought I would. It had absolutely no impression on my wife. She was on a mission (she had a son or daughter egg ready to drop and needed a daddy sperm to accommodate).
I did resist and even tried the copout “I can’t perform under pressure like this”. Not taking no as an answer, she decided to resume foreplay. Apparently, I only needed a little compassion, and stimulation, to turn around my thinking--or so solve the mind-body problem: procreation was on!
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