BloggingDangerously

G-Spot: 50 Shades of Grey Review

You may know that I have a Facebook Book Club and that I LOVE to read.  You probably know that I am more frank than most about things that my Catholic grandparents would never have discussed in mixed company - or likely at all.

And yet I just cannot get myself to read 50 Shades of Grey.  Partly it's the Twilight Fan Fiction aspect and partly it's the bondage - which is not my cup of tea - but I just can't get myself to click "Send to Kit's Kindle."

So I was THRILLED when my longtime commenter and dear friend John offered to guest post his review.  Please leave a comment and let me know if you agree or disagree with his comments or if, like me, you just can't bring yourself to pick it up.

Note: This is a review of an erotic novel so if you are uncomfortable with explicit sexual terms you may want to proceed with caution.

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It's what everybody is talking about these days . . . 50 Shades of Grey the Twilight fan fiction that grew legs of its own and went from a self-publishing oddity to the leader on the Amazon.com charts. And I get pretty angry, with myself, when I hear about the book, and how popular it is, and how much people enjoy reading it. Because, well, I don't think it's particularly well-written and I think know I could do better. 50 Shades is . . . well, I'll call it a "coming of age" story, because there isn't much of a plot. An annoying girl's roommate gets sick, so the annoying girl has to interview the annoyingly rich guy, and she becomes obsessed with him, and he becomes obsessed with her, and they fuck a few times. But he prefers the kinky side and she doesn't like feeling like a whore when he lavishes his richness upon her. And she's not really into the concept of pain being pleasure. Then, they go flying in a plane without an engine, but, unfortunately, don't crash. Seriously - there is no main conflict . . . it's just a diary. My issues with the book are numerous: there are serious grammatical/word-use issues, there are lapses in continuity that I absolutely cannot look past, the characters are wholly undeveloped and unlikable, there is behavior that is laughed at that needs to be dealt with seriously, and, I'll admit it, it's a fucking "sparkly vampire" story¹. Actually, let's start with the fact that we're talking about a girl, of modest means, who becomes instant BFF's with her first, very rich, college roommate and is graduating college without any monetary issues and a very well-established palate for wine. I'm willing to accept that reality for the sake of the story. And the first issue I have, that there are grammatical issues, I can almost forgive . . . and I'm an absolute stickler for proper grammar. Basically, I think 50 Shades became a victim of its own popularity . . . it was submitted through fan fiction and became popular. It became popular enough to self-publish, and then it got picked up. This is the dream for most every author on the internet (well, most of us would want to skip the self-publishing step, but, with rare exception, that might not be feasible . . . if a publisher can choose between "something good" and "something guaranteed to sell," they're going to pick the latter, and I can't fault them for that . . . especially since the two are far from mutually exclusive). Because of the path it took, it never received proper editing - and by the time an editor would have looked at it, it was far too popular. Why mess with a good thing? But, then, there are things that I can't look past. I don't want to give too much away in the plot, in regards to the continuity -- but I'll mention the very first thing that bothered me. When Ana & Christian have sex in her college housing, Ana's hands are tied to the bed with a tie, and Christian pulls her t-shirt over her head so that she can't see. Before he fucks her, he takes off his clothes, and she mentions that he strokes his sizable cock before he enters her. The thing is -- she couldn't see. How did she know that he was stroking his cock? Because if he was telling her, it would have been hotter. To know that he was whispering "Anastasia, I'm stroking my cock, imagining how much better it's going to feel once I'm inside you," would have been a vast improvement than what was actually written. Because of this, I read the entire scene of a girl getting fucked, hard, while bound to a bed, scratching my head instead of, well, doing something else with another part of my body. Without a real plot, and with defective story-telling, I'd have been able to get into the story if I could have liked the characters. But, I couldn't. Ana is whiny. She doesn't want to be a whore who, basically, gets paid to have sex . . . yet, she's someone who takes a computer and a cell phone and a car and heads out to fancy dinners while thinking about signing a contract that says "this person can do whatever he wants to me, whenever he wants to do it." Christian is a control freak with completely unpredictable mood swings. He's an impossibly good looking 27 year old tycoon who has some very strange issues, yet closes up like a turtle in his shell whenever you ask him about anything remotely odd. Kate is a bitch who really despises Christian, yet won't really talk to Ana about that resentment, choosing to make Ana uncomfortable in public settings. Ana accepts this from her BFF. There is a single character, Taylor, who appears to be a personal assistant to Christian, and he shows up at just the right place & right time, time & time again. I suspect that he's a ninja . . . or a brainsashed vampire manservant . . . but on the possibility that he's a ninja, I enjoy him. Next, can we talk about stalking a bit? Stalking is not cool, and shouldn't be joked about. I'll admit, when I start reading a new blog that I enjoy, I'll admit to "stalking" the blog author by reading through the archives. If I have a friend on Twitter, I'll "stalk" them by having their tweets texted to me. That isn't actual stalking, just taking what's publicly available & making it more accessible to me. Tracing someone by their cell phone usage? Highly disturbing. Showing up on someone's doorstep for a booty call immediately after a "nice knowing you" email? Troubling. Absolutely refusing to talk about or explain juvenile sexual abuse? Absofuckinglutely a deal breaker. I'd have the police involved, yet these are just accepted truths in the 50 Shades world. Ho-hum. Lastly, I want to scream "yes, we know he's a fucking vampire" time and time again. She's not allowed to touch his bare chest (yet he steadfastly refuses to tell her why, and she just accepts this), he barely sleeps, he has worldly knowledge & talents that seem impossible for a 27 year old. Sure, the sex scenes grab my attention -- but have you just met me? Sex will always grab my attention³. And, lest you think that I'm a prude, and the concept of BDSM sex "just doesn't cut it for me," I've been writing erotic fiction, on and off, for over 12 years . . . currently at John's Dark Side. I have no issue with sex, and I actually think society, as a whole, would be better if we talked about sex more openly. A little boy has questions about sex, but doesn't want to go to his parents because "that's not stuff we talk about," so he goes to his friends, but what they tell him can't actually be true, so he goes to someone he trusts that will actually talk about it . . . his teacher or his priest. I'm know I'm oversimplifying the enormity of child sexual abuse, but if we're more open to talking about sex, we open more avenues for the proper handling of questions & behavior. Ultimately, I think the success of the book is due to readers who, simply, don't know that erotica is out there. Much like Twilight validated the feelings of being a 14 year old girl (or, as the incomparable KLZ writes, Twilight is to literature as a Britney Spears song is to music) . . . 50 Shades validates the darker side to sexual desire - and this is a good thing. Only, well, I wish it were written better. Or, more precisely, I wish that I could have stepped out of my "write one smut scene at a time" shell, turned out a smutty novel. In short, I wish I had written it. I challenge any reader who enjoyed 50 Shaedes to read Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty trilogy. Or, you know, my dirty blog. Because I do enjoy getting the hits.

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¹ I lament that there is not a common set of rules regarding supernatural creatures . . . and that the lack of rules allows for the Southern Vampire novels to be mentioned in the same breath as the Anne Rice Vampire novels to be mentioned in the same breath as the sparkly vampire novels². And the sparkly vampires are to Anne Rice vampires as the Red Panda is to the Panda.

² That vampires can exist in sunlight is, actually, one of the things that Meyer got right from Bram Stoker's original Dracula . . . Dracula existed just fine in the daylight in that novel. But he did not sparkle.

³ Other things guaranteed to grab my attention? Boobs, a well-prepared steak dinner, a midget waking on his/her hands, dogs dressed as game-show hosts.

Hope

About a month ago I walked into my kitchen shell-shocked.  My husband looked at me with concern.  "What happened?" he asked.

"Three of my online friends have separated from their husbands in the past month - two of them were people I thought had ROCK SOLID marriages.  All of them are devastated."

He hugged me but I couldn't get past it.  What makes people choose to let it go?

And then I remembered my friend A-.  When she told me she was getting divorced, I tried to get her to stay.  "It will be so much HARDER as a single parent." I told her.

She didn't care.  Her husband didn't want to be married and they fought about the "married" responsibilities he didn't want to bear.  She decided that it would be easier to do it herself (since she pretty much was anyway) and not have to fight about it - and not have to take care of him AND a child.

She was completely right and I was completely wrong.  A few months later she met a WONDERFUL man who adored her and her child and wanted nothing MORE than to be a husband and father.  She is remarried and happy.

And then I got an email from today's guest blogger, Amy, who thanked me for reminding her that there was more to marriage than misery.  Her story demonstrates so much strength that I am certain she would have triumphed without any reminders from me but I am honored that she counts me among her friends.

I replied to her email and begged her to write her story for me - so that I could publish it to remind anyone that needed reminding that even FairyTales gone awry can have happy endings.

Warning: Her story contains elements of violence and abuse. 

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When Kit emailed me about doing a guest post, I was completely floored! I have my tiny little blog that barely has any posts, and here I am getting asked by a real blogger to guest post. I am humbled to say the least. When I first started reading “Blogging Dangerously,” I was in year five of my marriage. I know that most folks would think that being just five years into a marriage, that there should be bumps in the road. But my bumps in the road were different.  When a complete stranger leans over and tells you to “get out of your marriage as fast as you can,” you know that something serious is wrong in your relationship. Now granted, it did take me over a year and a half after the proclamation from the stranger to finally get out of my marriage, but I finally did break free.

You all probably need a little bit of background for the story to make sense. I met my now ex-husband when I was in college. He was in the graduate program and I was in the undergraduate program for accounting. He was fifteen years older than me, but I didn’t let that bother me. Age is just a number, right? I probably should have seen that there was something weird about a 35 year old man wanting to be in a relationship with someone so young, but alas, I was in love and was completely blinded to logic. Our dating relationship was filled with arguments and aggravations, all of which I assumed would get better once we got married. I perhaps had a little bit of a fairy tale idea of marriage, but it wasn’t founded completely in fiction. I grew up around a good deal of couples who were completely and totally in love and doting on each other all of the time (one such couple I stayed with a lot, so I was able to see that it wasn’t a front). I was expecting love and devotion and spending lots of time together once we got married. Also, as a little bit of background on me, I was raised Southern Baptist and was taught from a very young age that sex was to be saved for marriage (now granted, I didn’t quite follow those rules, but I was always, always filled with guilt for having sex). I was super excited about getting married and getting to have sex guilt free! Yay!

Wow, did getting married ever bite me in the butt. The night of our wedding my then husband suggested that since we were both so tired from the day that we should just sleep in separate beds. We had already moved everything into our apartment including both of our beds from being single. I was so exhausted from both the wedding and the drive home, and since we had to get up so early the next day, I didn’t argue. The next morning, he came in and had sex with me. Now, that doesn’t sound like it would be a problem, but really, it was more rape than sex. He just got on top of me, didn’t get me ready or anything, and then when he was tired, stopped and said “there, now you’ve had your first sex of being married.” That happened on Sunday. By Wednesday of our honeymoon, I knew I had made a mistake. But I was trapped. My religious up bringing didn’t allow for divorce. And I was so young. What could I do?

That was just the beginning too. He pretty much flat out refused to have sex with me after the honeymoon. We went to marriage counseling a couple of times, but I quickly called that off as he was verbally abusive to me after the counseling. And he was pretty much abusive to me during the counseling. He told me in the counseling that he would rather masturbate than have sex with me. And when the counselor asked him why he didn’t want to have sex with me, the only thing he would answer was “it just isn’t time”. I never got to the bottom of what that meant. But the fact that my own husband didn’t want to sleep with me really got to me. My self-esteem was in the toilet. My mental health was severely damaged.

And the sex wasn’t the only problem. He liked to make me feel bad about myself. He would tell me that I was a bad wife. He would call me names. His favorites were “stupid bitch” and “fucking whore”.  If he got angry with me, which was more frequent than I’d like and for little things like not putting the toilet paper back on the holder, he would get in my face and yell at me. Often while also backing me into a corner. When I would call him out for being abusive he would make comments like “you Alabama people are always saying that their spouses are abusing them. Way to play into the trailer park attitude.”  And that wasn’t even his favorite game to play. He loved to play the “you don’t have any friends game”. Now granted, it didn’t feel like a game when he was doing it, but now that I think about it, it was a cruel game. He would get me tickets to concerts/plays/etc. that he knew that I would want to see. He would always buy 2 tickets. And then at the last moment, usually the day before, when I was say something like “oh, are we going to get dinner before the show tomorrow” he would say “well, you didn’t ask me to go with you to the concert/play/etc. so I’m not going to be able to go”. Then when I would ask my friends if they could go, most of the times they couldn’t on such short notice (especially considering a majority of my friends are women with children). When I would get upset that I would have to go alone, he would go with me, but berate me the entire way there saying that I didn’t have any friends, which was why he had to go.

I don’t really know how I held on for so long. I prayed and prayed every Sunday for direction and for guidance. I was to the point that I was praying that I would die. I wasn’t suicidal. I just wanted to not wake up in the morning. I wanted God to just take me during the night. I got to the point where I was having a headache more days than not, when I finally went to the doctor. I told the intake nurse that I wanted to be dead. The doctor prescribed me some medicine that would help my headaches that was also an antidepressant. I am not saying that medicine solves problems, but I do believe that the meds gave me the clarity to see that I didn’t have to stay unhappy, that I didn’t have to be a martyr to my marriage. I could finally see that my marriage was not normal and that I deserved better.  Now granted my friends and family had been telling me for years that I deserved better, I just couldn’t see a way out. And finally a door opened that I could walk through. I was terrified and I was nervous, but finally it was like a veil had been lifted. On Valentine’s Day 2010, I told my husband I wanted a divorce.

Our divorce was probably one of the more amicable divorces that have ever taken place. We both had our own sources of income, so there was no alimony problem. We didn’t have children, so there was no custody/child support problem. But folks, I am here to say, that even though a divorce was necessary for me, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It isn’t like breaking up with someone. It is hard to end a marriage after you’ve stood up in front of God and everybody and said “yes, I will be your spouse forever and always, amen”. It takes a lot of pain to undo those bonds. But sometimes it just has to be done.

With all of that behind me, I was able to see that I deserved more from a relationship. And you know what, I found it. While I was going through the divorce, I got back in touch with a friend of mine from high school. We had been in communication on and off for the past couple of years, but mainly just to say hello on Facebook. About a month before I signed the divorce papers, he invited me to a Pampered Chef party at his place. He told me to bring my husband along, but I told him that we were getting a divorce. I went to the party alone. It was fantastic. He and I talked about what I was going through with the divorce. Soon after the party, he invited me over for some Southern comfort food aka fried chicken and biscuits. The next time that I saw him, I had been to my parents house and there was an article about the possibility of an airport in my parents’ home town so I stopped by his place to show him the article. We sat and talked for what seemed like forever, realizing how much we had in common. For the first time, I actually broke down in front of someone. I cried and cried on his shoulder. He became my safe place in pretty much an instance. On the day that I signed the divorce papers, he made me a picnic dinner and took me to sit by the river to eat. It was so different from what I’d been experiencing. But I was scared. I was literally just divorced. I didn’t want to be in a relationship. I didn’t want to jump from a bad marriage into a new relationship. But he quite honestly  wore me down and helped me see that I could be loved. He wrote me love letters when he was away at work. He sent me sweet emails. He cooked for me and held my hand and walked with me out of my funk. I was able to stop taking antidepressants. I was able to stop going to therapy. I was able to see that I was worth being treated well. And we are still together, going strong in our relationship. We have had a couple of bumps along the way, but they were easily smoothed over. We both work very hard in this relationship (he had been in a very difficult relationship years earlier) to make each other feel cherished. But it doesn’t feel like work at all. It feels like this is exactly how things are supposed to be. That we were meant to be together from the start. And it just took some struggling through the murky waters of bad relationships to truly recognize and honor our new relationship.

So don’t give up. Don’t devalue yourself just because someone else does. Take hold of your life and claim it’s worth. We all deserve to be loved and cherished. And that is my hope for everyone who reads this. That if you don’t currently have someone who is loving you the way that you should be loved, that you will have that some day. And that you will have it without having to go through pain and heartache. 

 

G-Spot: The List

This post comes from my friend Debi , Truthful Mommy, from The TRUTH about Motherhood (www.motherhoodthetruth.com).

I wish I could say I had no idea what she's talking about - and so does my husband.  I can't tell you how many times I've crawled into bed - FINALLY - only to hop back up 6 or 7 times to add to my todo list for the following day.

Enjoy the post - and please show Debi some comment love.

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Seems more and more often lately, I’ve been finding myself in the most advanced stages of sleep deprivation. I wish I could blame it on late nights of steamy sex with my Big Guy in the conjugalorium. I wish I could blame it on a colicky newborn, no who am I kidding, no way in hell do I wish I could blame it on a colicky newborn. I can’t even blame it on a baby that needs to be breastfed on the regular. No feverish child. No worrisome thought or situation that needs my immediate attention. No, it’s much worse than that. My near fatal case of sleep deprivation is caused by my incessant need to make list of all the things that I perpetually need to not forget to do. The moment my head hits the pillow, every single thought of the day comes rushing to the surface and I lie there with my eyes wide open as the lists appears in every direction I look. Apparently, in my house, the hours between 11 pm and 1 am are the time period in which I get my one and only reprieve from Mommy brain.

These are not wish lists; groceries lists or even work lists. No, they are life lists.  You know the list of all the shit that any mother has to do the next day, compounded by all the things I don’t want to forget, mix in some groceries, a laundry list of paperwork to be returned to schools, drop offs and pick ups, baths, errands, classes, obligations, play dates, fruit market, work, envelopes for church to be filled, parent teacher meetings, auditions, uniforms to be pressed, lunches to be made, bills to schedule, cards to mail, birthdays, anniversaries, funerals and weddings and oh yeah, all the things that I must remember not to forget to make sure that my kids don’t end up in ten years worth of therapy because I forgot to put dress down day on the fucking LIST!

Must Remember to:

Buy organic milk. Get shoes out of trunk. Bobby pins. Sign up to volunteer. Talk to teacher. Wash jeans sparkly jeans and peace sign shirt (long sleeve not short sleeve) for dress down day. Dress down day. Girl Scouts. Pick up tickets for the ballet. Pick up deodorant for husband. Buy birthday gift for Suzy. Take dog to vet. Call sister to wish happy birthday. Buy shampoo. And conditioner. Oh yeah, Dress down day. Tell husband car is making funny noise. Call the mechanic. Confirm lunch date with friend. Find a new gynecologist. Call the insurance company about bill for unknown service. Refill blood pressure medicine. Dress down day. Make healthy lunch for girls. Go to the grocery store to buy healthy food, everything in pantry is crap. Call my mom. Ask doctor for Xanax. Put gas in the car. Do homework with Ella. Make cookies for bake sale. Milk the cows. Go to bakery. Buy cookies. Feed the chickens. Ballet. Iron shirts for husband. Shit! Show up for work. Shave legs. Wax lip. Breathe. Buy wine. Answer emails. Drink wine. Meet husband for intimate time in spare room. Teach Abbi the alphabet. Get girls to sleep in their own beds. Dress down day. Return field trip permission slip. Play date with neighbor. Piano. Student of the week. Zoo. Write a book. Take a nap. Take a shower. Eat. Rinse. Repeat. Hug the kids. Chicago. Halloween costumes. Birthday. Dress. Down. Day!

That’s a Monday. If I could just forget all of the things that I need to remember, I could have an 87% chance of surviving my stage 4 sleep deprivation. As it stands, just when I think I’ve forgotten it all and I’ve resigned myself over to the peaceful bliss of Mommy brain, I remember every thought, errand and conversation of the day. Again, I find myself wide-awake at the wee hours of the night. How can I be expected to raise proper little people with all these damn lists running through my head and holding sleep hostage? Tonight, I’ll have a glass of wine (or two) and pray for the list to get lost on its journey. Mommy brain, don’t fail me now.

 

G-Spot: The Story of Paul

I think this post is hilarious.  It also points out that the grass is not always greener.  Sure, your man may need a shot of Viagra to get him going and his hips may not enjoy any sudden shifts in position but if gets the job done without littering or talking too much hold onto him.

Thank you to this loyal reader for sending this in.

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I’m a 45 year old woman, single for about 8 months after a long term relationship. I hadn’t had sex for about 9 months and no good sex for a number of months prior to that. I had gotten to the point of realizing I needed to make something happen, so I went online to start dating again. For some reason, I am a magnet for younger men. Normally, I don’t really care for younger guys because I get off on maturity, intelligence, and sensuous pleasure. Young guys don’t seem to have the patience I prefer.

 

This time, though, I made an exception. I’d been chatting with this guy who was 29 and had met him for coffee a couple of times. The sexual tension was extreme and he flirted constantly. I think I kept communicating with him because it was good for my ego but I didn’t feel completely OK with hooking up with such a young guy. One day he must have been particularly horny because he kept texting me all day while I was at work. (Texting, other than for very quick notes annoys me). His persistence paid off, though, because I agreed to meet him that night. He kept texting me his horny intentions until we finally met at my house. Normally, this would have turned me off completely, but my hormones took over and I returned his texts with ones of my own.

 

When we finally got together, it was ---- crazy. Let me just say that there were a few things I had forgotten about young guys….. the stamina. The need for constant verbal reassurance. OMG. The constant changing of positions. I felt like I had been transported into a cheap porno. At one point during the action, he says “Call me Daddy…. Who’s giving it to you so good?” It took everything I had to not burst out laughing. I just couldn’t do it. I can’t remember what I said, but I can promise you it did not involve the word “Daddy” to a man who was 16 years younger. Between every change in position, he would yank off his condom and throw it on the floor, and then stroke himself for a minute or so, showing off what he seemed to feel was a remarkable prize.

 

He kept saying things like “you’ll want this cock every night, won’t you?”, and “I’m gonna show up here and fuck you every night, you want that don’t you?” Honestly, all I was thinking was, “It’s about time for you to go and not come back.” Don’t get me wrong, he was definitely getting the job done. But his Energizer-bunny approach was wearing me out and, frankly, he was a little high maintenance in the sack. I’m not used to needing to be a cheerleader.

 

As the experience drew to a close, he was standing at the edge of the bed and I was laying on my side, one leg straight in the air (in another porn star position). As THE MOMENT (for him) finally arrived, he leapt up on the bed, standing over me, whipped off the final condom of the night, and proceeded to…. Umm …. Share his wealth. ALL. OVER. ME. Even in my hair. What the hell do you say to that? (Other than goodbye, really, Go. Now.)  I was torn between laughing my ass off and punching him in the nuts. The hilarity of it all came to a head when he left and I went back into my bedroom and turned on the lights. Imagine 5 condoms and their wrappers all over the floor. Note to self as I’m bending my sore, worn-out body to pick up the remains of the night: This is why I don’t fool around with young guys.

G-Spot: Whirlpool Wanted

This post is from my friend Jessie in Kentucky.  Please leave her some comment love.

And if you have a hottub you're not opposed to scrubbing with bleach, let me know.

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My husband and I have been trying to have whirlpool sex for a decade now. But every single time we get a chance, something goes wrong.

Now, in general, we’re bread-and-butter lovers. We have two basic positions (five if you count the oral variations) and can’t figure out the physiology for much else. And that’s fine. But we’d like to try it in the tub.

We’re too cheap to actually own a Jacuzzi or hot tub, so we have to rely on our travel destinations and good luck. So far, that’s not working out very well.

Although we lived together for a good two years before marriage, our first opportunities came on our honeymoon. We took a train out to Denver and then drove around out West, giving us chances to make love in both Yellowstone National Park and at the Grand Canyon. In cottages. In beds.  It was very, very good, but it was not a whirlpool. In California’s Redwood Forest, there was this huge rock jutting out over a valley, where the sun shone hot and the stone felt smooth under our legs. But we weren’t the only hikers that morning, and well, seriously, a rock? I don’t care how slick it feels when you’re sitting holding hands under a blue sky, as soon as you start rubbing back and forth, that sucker’s going to give out friction burns.

Then, we had to overnight in Boise, Idaho on our way to some other stop. We didn’t plan our hotels ahead, and a sports tournament had pretty much filled up every room in town. The only thing left was a suite with a whirlpool.  We had intended to camp on this honeymoon, but it was a chilly spring and we quickly realized we’d just rather pay the money and sleep warm. (Cold tent sex went about as well as excessively narrow Pullman bed sex had gone on the train.)  And camping in Boise would have been pretty much a no-go in any season.  Still, we’re cheap. So we tried to pay only a little for our rooms, meaning this was our first ever fancy hotel stay. And it was at an express-type hotel, so it wasn’t that fancy. 

As soon as we got our bags up, I started to draw a bath. We climbed in and enjoyed the hot water rising up our calves and thighs. I reached behind me and turned on the jets, and my husband scooted close. Then, as we reached for each other, the bubbles suddenly stopped, and the water entering the tub turned freezing. We’d blown a fuse. And the overfilled hotel meant hot water was at a premium, since apparently three or four rooms shared a water heater.  We had to settle for a 69.

And we were too stupid to demand our money back.

The next opportunity came right at the end of the trip, just before we returned to Denver and caught the train back to Cincinnati. We stayed at these cheesy little cottages where the yards were muddy and the floors slightly saggy. The property’s main redeeming grace was that each cottage had a private hot tub. We paid and settled in, then checked out the porch. The first problem was that the cottages were so close to each other that we could see our neighbors in their hot tubs just as clearly as they could see us in our hot tub. The second problem was that management had apparently grown tired of people having hot tub sex. Posted so it was impossible to miss was a sign stating:

WE CHECK PH BALANCE AFTER EVERY GUEST. IF ANY FOREIGN SUBSTANCES ARE DETECTED WE MUST DRAIN AND REFILL THE TUBS. THERE IS A $250 FINE FOR PUTTING FOREIGN SUBSTANCES IN TUBS.

I suppose they could have meant urinating toddlers. But it covered the substances we wanted to leave, as well, and we weren’t paying $250 for two damned tablespoons of semen.

After that, it was several years before we got another chance. Though I’m not sure I’d call it a “chance”, because the hotel room wasn’t a suite, and our daughter was the one who got to play in the “vroomy-tub”. Another time, we went on a family vacation for my Mother-In-Law’s sixty-fifth birthday. We stayed in these wonderful cabins in Hocking Hills, Ohio. But we hiked ourselves to exhaustion every day and shared the cabin with the guest of honor at night. Not happening.

I seriously thought we’d beaten the jinx this year. We did the Disney vacation Orlando, staying at a resort with friends. Our suite was like three interconnected hotel rooms, meaning each adult couple had a private bath and the kids were practically in their own apartment. Our room had a giant Jacuzzi with the works. Silver long-hosed shower attachment? Check. Numerous jets? Check. Favorite alcoholic beverages? Check. Children far far away? Check and check. They even had mirrors on the ceiling if we hadn’t been so visually challenged.

Night 1: Naturally, we couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. Ten minutes of trying and a call to maintenance didn’t solve the problem, and the only water we could get going was cold. Of course, the next morning, when resort staff came to check, the left tap produced a nice warm stream, and they couldn’t understand what we’d found so difficult.

Night 2: The four year old realized he had to access our suite by going through a semi-external hall and that this put him Far Away From Mom. We tried putting him in bed with his big sister and our friends’ six  year old, but he returned to me like a magnet, followed a couple of hours later by the sister. In fact, because all of the kids had vacated their apartment to be with parents, hubs and I took over their bed once the children were asleep. But there was no Jacuzzi in that room.

Nights 3-5: Variations on this scene, with Disney-induced exhaustion adding to our need to just sleep to brace for the day ahead.

Every time, it’s something, and I’m starting to think we’re destined to our five mainstays. And those are all nice. But we’d like to try something exotic for once. Something wild and utterly new for both of us. We aren’t the sort to go make it in elevators and on public park benches. Hell, we aren’t even likely to go have sex on the beach and get sand in all our crevices. We’re cheap, practical, and very fond of mattresses and sheets to go under our backs, hands, and knees. Just once, though, we’d like to try it in the water.

So I’m appealing to the sex gods here on Kit’s blog. Aphrodite? Isis? Oshun, Eros and, Shiva? And maybe I should throw in Poseidon as well, since this is an aquatic request? If you’re net savvy and into this site at all (and, really, what self-respecting deity of intercourse wouldn’t be?), could you do a couple of  mere mortals a tiny favor and grant us a night in the near future with a deep fizzy tub,  plenty of hot water, and no other issues? We’d really appreciate it down here on Earth.