Never Getting Laid
happy sad horny
On the heels of one of the worst weeks of my life (my beloved dog died) I had a whack-load of family coming to spend a hefty chunk of time with us this summer.
The cabin already bursting at the seams, we stacked everyone in beds and dresser drawers the best we could.
One night I drew the short straw and had to sleep in a double bed with JC … the horror.
It’s not that JC and I haven’t shared a bed since our “separation,” we have. A couple months ago I even toyed with the idea that I should start sleeping with him again in our king size marital bed. I built a pillow barricade between us and gave it the good old college try.
JC likes to fall asleep with his ninety-inch TV blasting sitcoms, with laugh tracks, at full volume, he forgets to take his glasses off, and he snores like someone with undiagnosed sleep apnea. If I dare try to fish the remote from his hand, or take the spectacles off his nose, he jolts awake and yells “I was watching that!” The last time this happened he fumbled the remote and immediately clicked from Anthony Bourdain to porn. “Oh what? Weird. How did that happen?!” he quickly tried to cover his tracks while a woman was getting railed and moaning at volume 100 on his Jumbotron.
Our rekindling was short lived before I trotted my little ass back to the other bedroom.
I’m not exactly a peach to sleep with either.
“Eagle Ears,” as JC calls me, needs it to be pin drop quiet in order to fall asleep.
Not a dishwasher running, a phone reel reeling, or a low whisper of a voice gets past my echolocation.
I crawl into bed wearing some variation of the ugliest outfit you’ve ever seen; typically ratty old grey sweatpants that I have cut the elastic out of the ankles because it makes me claustrophobic, a man’s XL T-shirt, or a tank top that one or more of my tits will inevitably end up freeing themselves from before the night is over.
I snap my Invisalign trays in tight after having soaked them a glass of blue denture cleaner.
I sleep on a special pillow made of ripped up pieces of foam like the pits in gymnastics class that always gave me a panic attack, I’m only a little scared that pillow will swallow me whole.
For warmth I use a child-sized weighted blanket that only covers three-quarters of my body, which is fine because my feet (and ankles) need to breathe.
The real secret to my nocturnal sexiness is that I have to sleep with a hot sock full of rice. I know — meow.
A quick three minutes in the microwave while my dentures soak and I am good to pad down the hall and crawl into bed.
With a molten hot tube-sock of rice around my neck, I spend the next two hours catching up on my reading and playing my NYT word games. Heaven.
With our guests occupying all the other beds, JC climbed into the double bed with me.
Not a small man, at six-foot-three and weighing in at a cool deuce and a half, there was zero room for a pillow-wall. Nor any pillows left after our guests had claimed them all. I held onto ol’ foamy for dear life.
I wouldn’t let JC have the TV on while I was reading and told him he needed to go straight to bed.
For an ex-husband he certainly isn’t a very good listener.
While I attempted to group my Connections and read the horoscope of every one of my fake boyfriends, JC kept interrupting me.
“I get to stay at Grandma’s Feather Bed in Juneau when I go,” he said.
“Cool,” I responded.
“Then I get to have breakfast at Captain Cook’s in Anchorage,” he continued.
I nodded my head to let him know I heard him but wasn’t interested in hearing more.
“I have to sleep on the couch in Sitka, though …”
“You’re about to sleep on the couch now if you don’t stop talking, please go to bed.”
I went back to my (very important) reading.
“One more thing … do you know where my rain jacket is?”
I glared at him with daggers in my eyes, which he couldn’t see in my pitch black room.
Five minutes of peace went by before I got a tap on the shoulder.
“Do you want to have sex?” he whispered.
“Not even a little bit,” I growled.
“Ok, just checking,” he said before rolling over and finally going the fuck to sleep.
When you live with your ex-husband it means neither of you are ever getting laid.
I am going to assume (from what my friends tell me) it’s probably the same living with a current spouse as well.
I don’t think I’ve had sex in a year, have I?
I might have said yes to JC once in a moment of weakness but since we are still legally married that doesn’t count.
Those are the rules, I don’t make them.
Unless he’s bringing ladies back to Grandma’s Feather Bed, JC probably isn’t getting laid either.
In order to keep my sanity I would appreciate if every one of my exes (or any man who’s ever spoken to me) never sleep with another girl again, ever.
Do I want them to be happy? Sure I do.
But if I’m not getting laid, nobody else should be.
Is this fair? No. Life isn’t fair, babe.
I’m staying at Larry’s (the other ex) this week. He invited me over because he knew I would be “alone alone” while JC is on that fishing trip in Alaska. I’d normally welcome the break — and a quiet house — but without my dog, it’s too much to take.
Larry has an open door policy with me and I can stay whenever I want. I wrote that policy because I birthed his child.
He doesn’t date much, but my only request is … if he has a girl over (yes, at his own home, lol) it’s that she doesn’t touch my stuff.
To which Larry says …
“Stop leaving your shit at my house.”
He’s so funny.
Last night when I got here, he ordered us dinner. I wanted Thai, he didn’t want that. I compromised for Mexican, only because the Thai place in town was closed.
After dinner I got into my ratty tie-dye sweatpants and tank top (that I left here).
I walked into the kitchen, areolas ever so slightly exposed, to make myself a brand new rice bag.
Larry looked at me and said
“Put your fat tits away.”
He wants me.
One pair of pink compression socks with pineapples on them, four cups of jasmine rice, and three minutes in the microwave later — his whole house smelled exactly like the neighborhood Thai place.
I brushed my teeth, dabbed on my pimple cream, put in my retainers, scurried down the hall into bed at nine p.m. and thought to myself …
“Nope, none of us are ever getting laid.”
Listen, Little Girl, there is more to life than sex and "getting laid"! When I find out what that is, I will let you know. I have to go to John's office to see what he's doing...
Reading you is always a treat Candy ! 😘 it's been a while but Im back hopefully.