I had sex with my husband last night, even though I’m angry with him. I don’t know why I do this. I wish I could be like this woman I know who held out for two months (TWO MONTHS!) until her husband agreed to let her
loser brother and the brother’s loser girlfriend move in.
She waited until they were undressed to reveal, “This is probably the last sex you’ll get, because I think my brother and his girlfriend might try to watch, and I’m not into that.”
So why was I angry? I asked him to do three things.
- Empty the dishwasher.
- Take out the recyclables.
- Make sure the girls get baths.
He did only one, and only because the oldest stood naked in the living room, licked her hands and said, “Look, Daddy! You don’t have to wash me now, I’m taking a bath just like Noodles!” (Noodles is our family cat. You can read more about her here and here).
So our daughters would not be covered in saliva embedded with cracker crumbs and, um, cat hair (the little one didn’t quite understand the concept of self grooming, and consequently, gave the cat a few swipes with her tongue), my husband herded them into the bathtub. They proceeded to splash water on the floor until he finished reading this week’s copy of Sports Illustrated.
I’m not sure how other married couples deal with this issue, but my sister got married last August, and she likes to give me marital advice over the phone, her voice authoritative with the six months of expertise she has under her belt.
“This is what you should do–” she begins, and I cut her off.
“I didn’t call to get advice. I called just to vent.”
She continues, as if I had not spoken. “You should just not have sex. Then when he asks why, you say,
‘You put the forks in the silverware drawer wrong!’ Voila! Problem solved.”
“Oh, that’s just stupid. Withholding sex is stupid, and being upset about which way the forks face in the drawer is stupid.”
“It isn’t stupid to you. Anyway, I don’t know how you can have sex when you’re angry. I can’t stand the sight of my husband when we fight.”
The thing is, I can have sex when I’m angry. It’s like the part of my brain that wants to have sex isn’t even aware of the part of my brain that wants all the forks facing the same way.
“Just so you know, ” I said as I unbuttoned my jeans with one hand and unclasped my bra with the other, “I’m still mad about the recyclables.”
“The recyclables?” He’s confused as he hops out of his pants.
“Yes! The recyclables!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t put the recyclables out last night! Now they’ll be here until the next pick up!”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, pulling me down onto the bed with him. “The recyclables.”
See? I’m hopeless.
You can read more of my thoughts on sex as a weapon in this post Bread and Roses (and No Sex).
Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.