Last night was supposed to be quiet. I wanted to sit at home and drink wine and write. I wanted to sift through my paints and organize the photos I've been taking of my toes.
I don't understand time in the conventional sense. Rather, I understand it by how deep into my bottle of wine I am. Two glasses in, my doorbell rang.
I wasn't expecting anyone. I was sitting on the couch in a tank top and my underwear. I should mention that I was wearing little boy's underwear. I thought it was sort of whimsical and cute, but judging from Jamie's reaction, it was more comical than whimsical. She laughed and slapped me on the a$$ on her way in the door. "Cute, Mist."
Jamie is always a vision of beauty. I wish more people would ring my doorbell with a bottle vodka in hand. Jamie is not a guest in my house. She knows where all my stuff is. Sometimes, I call her and ask her where my stuff is. She pushed past me and opened the fridge. "Why don't you ever have any mixers?" she complained from the kitchen. In my home, ice cubes are mixers.
While she poured vodka over ice, I scanned the living room for panties and signed out of chat. She sat on the couch and started to cry. I am not good in situations that involve tears. I moved over to hug her. "Don't touch me in those f*cking tighty whiteys!" she shrieked. I backed off. It's not the first time that my little boy's underwear has turned someone off. My UPS man just rings the doorbell and runs.
Jamie is newly married and the sex has already gone bad. I now refer to her husband as Missionary Paul. Missionary Paul is only interested in one kind of sex; the kind where his wife lies on her back and screams over his shoulder at the ceiling about how he is totally rocking her world and could he fix the dishwasher in the morning. This is the kind of sex that I should perfect because my sink is still backed up.
I don't understand. I am the type of girl that tells a man what I want in bed. "Honey, get the towel," is one of my favorite phrases. It seems that Jamie is unable to express her true desires in bed. I can't help her here. I have tried. I listened as much as I could, but I just don't know what to do.
I offered all the advice that I could. I told her that a little role play might spice things up a bit. She looked at me in my little boy's underwear and cried uncontrollably. Jamie cried until we passed out, in my bed. When I woke up, her big toe was snugly up my a$$. As I pried her toe out of my a$$, I told her that a bottle of vodka will get you everywhere. She made me breakfast with the leftover vodka and went home. It was a good breakfast. Who knew that I had orange juice in the freezer?
I am turning to you all (that's y'all for my Southern readers) for help with marital sex. It seems, that I am only knowledgable about extra or pre-marital sex.