After divesting his clothes (I sleep naked; he dresses for an arctic expedition before coming to bed), my husband rocks our bodies together in a slow glide and picks up the conversation (which happens to be about potential future lovers…which is a subject that occasionally serves to turn him on…which is the *only* reason he’s even remotely interested in sex at this hour) where we left off a moment before.
“Why don’t you get together with A?” he asks.
I wrap my legs around his, pulling him into me, before I respond.
“Because I’m not interested in A.”
He knows better than to ask why (or maybe he’s just not awake enough to bother), so he asks a different question instead.
“What kind of guys are you interested in?”
Mentally rolling my eyes (because after almost ten years with me, he *still* doesn’t recognize my most sensitive erogenous zone as such), I tighten my PC muscles and explain.
“I like men who stimulate my brain.”
He contemplates this revelation for a moment, then nods.
“I think your brain is in your pussy,” he states with not-yet-caffeinated academic sobriety. “So that makes perfect sense.”
Hmph! Well at least it makes sense to HIM. I, on the other hand, am (Still! An hour and a half later!) slightly dumbfounded.
How is it possible that someone who understands me so well doesn’t really understand me at all?