The Mister gave me a nickname when we first got together (together in the Biblical sense, I mean) that has held on for nearly ten years now: Orgasmic Girl. Since a few eyebrows (and possibly other parts of the anatomy) would be raised if he was to use that nickname in public, it was quickly shortened to OG. Pronounced in a Viking-meets-Irishman kind of way: Oh’g. Go ahead… Say it. It’s fun! All together now: Oh’g.
This morning while we were lazing about in bed, I was snugged up against my husband with my head on his chest and one hand absently (actually there was nothing ‘absent’ about it…it was intentional) playing with his nipple while he was reading. (His current biblio-interest is a nonfiction piece that reads like a novel, outlining the adventures of Captain ‘Dynamite’ Johnny O’Brien.) This went on for a while, both of us comfortable; his mind meandering with the swashbuckling sea story he was absorbing and mine contemplating how those nipples I was stroking would taste; when suddenly he got all kinds of excited (no, not like that) and exclaimed, “This guy was at Umatilla!”
I blinked up at him. “Yu-ma-who-za?”
“It’s on our coast!” he enthused.
“It’s a place. Here. In our state,” he explained. “Umatilla!”
I sat up. Looked at him. Blinked again.
He repeated the word, enunciating slowly. “YOU-ma-TIL-la.”
“No,” I grinned. “Me not Matilla.”
His turn: blink, blink.
“Me not Matilla,” I clarified. “Me Oh’g.”