Let's talk about sex, baby. As parents, we are often not allowed to talk about the act that likely earned us the title Mom or Dad. So, we're gonna. And we're gonna start by making it as awkward as possible.
Disclaimer - So, obviously, this post is about sex. If this is triggering for you, maybe don't keep scrolling. Also, this is definitely an 18+ sort of thing. You've been warned.
I love erotica. It’s a brilliant blend of wordcraft and sex: two of my favorite things.
It makes sex sexy. But in practice, sex isn’t always erotica. Especially for those in long-term monogamous relationships. It can be messy and ungraceful. It is full of weird angles that just aren’t working and all sorts of strange, unexpected noises. (I’ll never not blush when I queef.) What follows is one such tale of when sex doesn’t look like art.
As far as the act of sex goes, I’m a little vanilla. Okay, I’m a lot vanilla. I’ve always been willing to experiment and explore, but what’s going to get me off is about as dull as sex gets.
Luckily I married a man whose tastes run as simple as mine. It makes things easy in the bedroom. Where he diverges from my vanilla-ness is he has a thing for lace. It isn’t really a kink, and he doesn’t need it to get off, but it turns him on.
I hate lace. That shit is itchy. But, wanting to be a giving partner, I don the lace from time to time. It ends up balled up on the floor halfway through, but by then, its job is done. One particular evening, I had something extra special in mind for the hubs. We’d had a several month dry spell thanks to having had twins and were just getting back into the groove of regular sex.
I wanted to add a little something extra for our weekly sex. (Yes, weekly. When you have twin infants, sex has to be scheduled, or it won’t happen.) I’d secretly ordered a lace bodystocking. Every single curve was going to be painted with lace, collarbone to toe. I knew if I listened carefully, I’d be able to hear the blood rushing to my husband’s dick the minute he laid eyes on me.
Our sexy fun-time night arrived, and I was positively electric. The thought of arousing him aroused me. He went to clean up in the main bathroom while I snuck my little surprise into the master bedroom.
The bodystocking was better than I’d imagined. Fine filigrees of black-leafed vines danced their way around my hips. My nipples peeked out from behind the woven petals of ebony flowers. Hell, this much lace, and I could kind of see what turned my husband on about this shit.
It was hot. I was sexy as fuck, and I was feeling it from my heart all the way down to the lady bits.
And here, kind readers, is where things got real unsexy.
While brushing my teeth and admiring my lacy hotness, I decided to do a little spin turn on one foot to get a nice “action shot” in the mirror.
Shouldn’t have done that.
As physics would have it, lace isn’t great for traction on tile. I spun alright. The problem came when putting my other foot down didn’t stop the spin. Momentum carried my lace-covered ass around for another half a revolution. Gravity decided to interfere, and I went down like a drunken tornado tearing through the lingerie section of the dollar store.
Luckily I caught myself. With my face. On the bathroom counter. I heard a sickening crack and, I have to confess that ruined the mood for me entirely. I must have made some sort of scream because my husband came barreling in from the bedroom, stark naked and concerned.
He found me flat on my bum on the floor. Blood was pouring from my nose. Toothpaste foam had smeared across my face, and the toothbrush was still dangling out of my mouth.
I spit the toothbrush out into my hand, and a canine came out with it. My tongue instinctively moved to the fresh hole in my smile. That crack I’d heard was my tooth breaking out of my head. Thus I sat holding my tooth with one hand and attempting to staunch the nose bleed with the other.
“Am I sexy yet?” I managed to choke out from my pitiful, unsexy spot on the bathroom floor. My husband laughed sympathetically and reached over me to grab a towel and some toilet paper.
Now given that I was on the floor and he was standing, this particular reach put me eye to eye with his cock. I couldn’t help but notice he had a chubby.
I could feel the left side of my face beginning to swell from its recent encounter with the vanity. I still managed to form the words, “Are you getting a hard-on right now?” My husband looked down at his own member to confirm.
“Well, yeah. I can’t help it.” I was indignant.
“You find this fucking sexy? I am holding my goddamn tooth and bleeding like a stuck pig.” The swelling and blood flow were causing a bit of a lisp. Spouse-of-the-year had the good sense to at least look abashed.
“Um, no. Not all of it.” He should have stopped there. He didn’t. “I like the lace, though.” He might have been able to recover from that if he stopped there. He didn’t. “It’s washable, right? I bet since it’s black, the blood won’t stain.”
Despite being mostly sure I’d broken my nose and still profusely bleeding, I flew off the floor. I started peeling myself out of the oversized onesie with all the speed and emphasis I could muster. I was clawing at the bodystocking, furious and frustrated, limbs flailing of their own accord.
Given that I was still covered in toothpaste, I must have looked rabid. I’m not sure what I was trying to show him by angrily stripping, but by golly, I was going to get out of that fucking black nightmare.
However, I was only able to free one arm and one tit before the lace rolled up on itself, trapping the other arm and halting any further progress in divesting myself of the lace bodystocking from hell. I had improved neither the unsexiness nor my mood.
My husband starting laughing. I looked utterly ridiculous. I knew it. His laughter was contagious. I began to giggle, but by now, the shock was wearing off and the pain setting in. And the lace tourniquet I’d created was starting to cut off circulation. My giggle turned to a whimper.
My husband found an unbloodied spot on my forehead and kissed me gingerly there. Pressing the towel against my nose, he helped me get cleaned up. It took an extra ten minutes and scissors to free me from the body stocking.
I was fortunate that I had not broken my nose or eye socket, though by what wizardry I avoided that I’ll never know. The dentist was unable to save the tooth, instead filling the gap with cadaver bone to prepare for an implant I’ll get someday.
Once I’d showered and calmed, we spooned for a while in bed. I could feel my husband actively willing away his erection despite my ass being tucked firmly against him. Good man, my husband. We did not have sex that night, but I made it up to him once the fat lip had faded.
There was absolutely zero lace involved, though.