My spouse is the King of Random Questions. I should be used to it by now…
Straddling his backside, my knees hugged firmly to his hips, I smoothed shea butter over my husband’s battered skin. My hands were working their way down and I was just debating over delectable ways to torture his ass, when he snapped out of his own head space and broke his silence with one of his infamous Random Questions.
In a voice brimming with curiosity, he asked me, “What’s the length of an Olympic pool?”
More than a bit engaged with the task (and flesh) at hand, I nudged him gently and told him to roll over, then answered distractedly, “Eight and a half inches, I think.”
I was just about to take *his* length in hand when his choked laugh disrupted my reverie.
Quirking an eyebrow in askance, I paired my stern voice with a saucy grin. “What?” I demanded.
Eyes downcast, but still snorting back a chuckle, the Mister replied, “Pool, hon. I asked about Olympic pools. Not poles.”
This momentary lapse (Get it? Pool? Laps…? Never mind…) in concentration has been brought to you by 12/21 (so much for the end of the world…apparently the world didn’t get the memo), True Blue spa products, and the letter M. For massage. And Mister Fever. And Michael Phelps.
‘Kayso, I’m off to practice my breast stroke… 😉