Read this yesterday, thought it was pretty good: Nothing Gets Me Wetter Than a Monotonous Domestic Routine, an excerpt:
It’s that moment 30 minutes later, right after the opening credits of American Idol, which my husband and I have tuned into each and every week for the past nine years, that I’ve been fantasizing about all day. The precise instant when my husband nods off like clockwork as the first contestant finishes singing. Boom! Niagara Falls. By the time he wakes himself up and promises he wasn’t sleeping and just resting his eyes, I’m gushing faster than he could even swallow.
Oh, God, I could listen to him snort himself awake right now.
But then watch what he does to me, the sexy bastard: He’ll see that I’m in agony, he’ll see that I’m right there on the edge—and then he’ll push me even further. He’ll respond to a few work emails, check his fantasy baseball on his phone, and then floss.
I’m squirting now. Can’t even help it. Just shaking and spurting like a busted fire hydrant. He’s got me right where he wants me: My mind’s turned to mush and I can barely remember my name. I’m just an aching, throbbing puddle, hoping against hope that he’ll put me out of my misery. And then—sure as the sun rises in the east—he’ll rouse himself to pee with the bathroom door open and take his heartburn medication.
Yes. Yes. Yes!