Chalk This One Up To Too Much Information

*Warning: This post contains graphic language and may not be suitable for any one with a heart condition, a stick up their rectum or is in any way related to my husband. Read at your own risk.*

Dear husband,

While I love you deeply and deeper with every breath I draw (for reasons that just don't include your weekly ability to pad my pockets and line our bank account or the fact you have a rock hard ass that every woman should be able to ogle just once in their life for the sheer eye-orgy it provides) I need to tell you something.

Something you may not want to hear.

But first I need you to know that you are a fantastic husband. You work your tail off to support your family, you chase our kids around and make them squeal with laughter and you have been known to do the dishes or vacuum without me ever asking you to.

I couldn't ask for a better life partner to snuggle up to at night. You even let me stick my icy cold feet in between your deliciously warm legs to heat up my toes and you never complain. That right there is a demonstration of love. True love.

So when you come home after being gone for weeks at a time and want nothing more than to pour yourself a stiff drink, sit on your couch, watch your wide screen t.v, and have your children rub your feet as your wife whispers sweet promises of action yet to come, I don't begrudge you.

In fact, I'll even get you a refill on that drink while making sure to show off my cleavage in front of you as I bend over to get the ice cubes out of the freezer.

I'm not above using my chesticles to show you how much I love you.

And when you come in to the bedroom after being gone for weeks and weeks and ask me to rub the knots out of your shoulders, I willingly oblige. Because I know how hard you work for us.

I may even use that back rub as the starting point to rub other things, if you know what I mean. (Waggles eyebrows suggestively.)

Which brings me to the meat of the matter.

Your meat.

Specifically, what happens to your man meat when you are drinking and I am not.

In other words, whiskey dick. Defined as what happens to a penis when a man consumes large amounts of liquor and is unable to ejaculate in a time effective and/or romantic manner.

Boo, nobody questions your ability as a lover. One look at my goofy grin and people know right away that I'm a happily satisfied woman.

So there is no need to prove you can out beat the Energizer Bunny. Sex is not an endurance sport. I'm getting older. I spend my day chasing children and small dogs. I'm tired. Sex to me means get in, get off and get out.

I realize I poured you that last drink, but I swear if I had known it would vault you into the Olympic trials for love making, I would have switched you to soda and slapped on that slinky outfit you like a whole lot sooner.

You may not know this but when I say "Are you finished yet?" with a slightly annoyed tone to my voice it's because I've well, come and gone and am ready for sleep.

"Are you close yet?" is not code for "Please keep pounding away at my sensitive nether regions until it feels like raw hamburger and eventually goes numb."

Nor does it mean, "A little longer and I'll be right there for Orgasm number 9."

No. It means "hurry the hell up you nimrod and do what you need to do because if this goes on much longer I'm going to rip off your dick and stick it down your throat while I go soak in a tub of hot water."

I am not a porn star. While I am extremely bendy and have been known to go above and beyond the call of duty to bring a sparkle to your eye, chances are I'm not going to have multiple orgasms just because you are pounding away at me like a jackhammer.

I know you know this already. I realize your common sense is being held hostage by Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels and your penis is merely a pawn in the war whiskey wages on your libido.

But don't be a dick and think that whiskey dick of yours is something to be worshipped upon.

Consider this a public message for when you come home next.

Whiskey dick won't get you to the promised land. That I promise you.

But it will get you a trip to the bathroom with a tube sock and some lotion while I slumber on peacefully.

So next time either get me good and hammered with you, love or just stick to root beer.

It'll be much easier for both of us.


Your loving wife.