He was asleep by the time I tucked the kids in and was ready for bed. Another hard long day at the future RV resort had my husband feeling fatigued. As soon as dinner was over, his eyes found it nearly impossible to stay open. I jumped in bed next to him, naked and ready to rumble.
I grabbed his dick in my left hand. For whatever reason I can stroke his dick better with it than my right hand. I held on tight and slowly, smoothly slid up and down the shaft feeling it enlarge in my hand.
It was Saturday. I spent the entire day dressed in red gowns filming videos for an online series, and my husband spent his day in coveralls on a track hoe clearing our waterfront property to get it ready for dirt and building permits.
Our plan is to build the office first then work on the RV spaces and boat launch, although I’m pretty sure my husband would put the boat launch first so he could begin to use to for his personal excursions.
I’m in a temporary tent, in my bathroom, naked and standing in awkward positions. My husband holds the spray gun out a foot or so from my body and directs the brown liquid onto my skin.
“Leg out,” he says then proceeds to cover my inner thigh a dark golden shade of paint. It smells like a tropical island but feels like an arctic blast. “Other leg.”
“Honey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” my husband says as he lathers his hair with soap. He’s in the shower, and I’m standing on the outside yelling in.
“Earlier when I was bent over on the bed and we were making love, why did you stop and close the curtain?”
“Because I could see the bookkeeper’s car. I knew she’d be leaving soon and I didn’t want her to see my standing their naked,” he replied rinsing his hair at this point. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day, my love,” he said grabbing me into his arms last night. My husband had just come in the door from a long day and was smelling dinner on the stove.
My son joined in the hug and asked “Oh, yeah, what were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking about giving you a new little brother!” He replied with a smile and a punch to the gut. Fighting is the language of love between all of the men in our home. “Yep, he’ll look just like me, your mother, and you,” my husband continued on.
He crawled up behind me in our warm bed, slid his arms around my body, engulfed me into his protection and rested his greedy hands on my breasts.
“It’s like coming home,” he whispered in my ear. It was 6:50am and my body did not want to retreat from our cozy bed and into the cold house for the morning wakeup routine. “Your body is heaven. God I just want to be here forever with you, my queen.” He squeezed my body tighter.
I’m afraid, dear reader, that this blog is getting boring. Why? Because the passion and dissonance of our married, the very elements that make tango a romantic dance, are simmering into a beautiful, comfortable loving pie around here.
Yesterday was the second day we missed having some sort of sexual intercourse in January. And like the first time, it happened not on a day of aggravation or distance, but on a day of connection and warmth and true love between us.
We won.
We won the dance competition, and it felt fantastic. When they called our names, my husband and I were stunned. Stunned mainly because there were so many great performances and so many high scores. Dancing for each other all these years has been enough, but being recognized for our dancing by the judges pushed the experience to an entirely new level.
We danced again last night in our bedroom. The competition is in three days. We ordered my husband some fancy dancy handmade leather tango shoes from Italy for the event. It took them three weeks to make and ship, but they arrived two days ago smelling up the kitchen with their leathery freshness when we opened the box.
“Wow,” he exclaimed when he squeezed his foot in one of them. “They fit my feet like a glove. This is amazing. Thanks, babe.”
The way he brushed his hand against my arm and down my back last night was tender seduction. My hand fell to the curve of his back in a graceful poetic tuck of the wrist. The middle finger grounds me to his body while the rest innocently stick out. Love permeated from our bodies as we embraced for the dance and made the first circular move with our feet.
“Five minutes of dancing,” I said a moment before that.
“Fifteen,” he countered.
It was 10pm, the kids were in bed, and both of us were tired from the day’s many activities.
“Five,” I held firm and pressed play on the music app on my iPhone. The music began and soon thereafter our feet.
