So we have our own language, right? I mean, I call him Smotch. He calls me OG (Oh’g). Our various household apparatuses are given names like “the roundy-round” (our lazy susan cupboard) and when I forget to turn off the light in my closet it’s because “the closet monster is in there trying on my shoes.” (“No, he’s just sniffing them,” is my husband’s reply.) Ramen is noodle-age; our SUV is The Filthy Beast; our now-deceased old man kitty had a name of his own too.
And my lady bits?
Well, that particular piece of anatomy is sometimes referred to as The Muffin.
SO
I was supposed to work but I got cancelled (my job is such that I still get paid if the cancellation is last-minute) and when I realized I was NOT required to get in the shower and run off to Do My Job, I decided to shower anyway and then — with my stellar seductive powers — I stood (naked) in the doorway of my husband’s bathroom until he was done showering and then I was like, “Would you like a muffin for breakfast?”
And y’know…
At first he was confused. *laugh*
We’ve gotten in the habit of going for coffee (mmm… coffee…) together in the mornings when we can, and that particular morning treat is sometimes accompanied by a pastry. So it was understandable when upon first being offered a muffin, he was like, “D’you mean a donut?”
But no, I did NOT mean a donut.
Of course, I offered to go get him a donut if that was his preference.
It was NOT his preference.
: grin :
And so — in our awkward-sexy way, with “Is this working?” coming in a muffle through a beard buried in muff and the ringing of his cell phone interrupting my concentration when I was al.most.THERE — we started and stopped and restarted (imperfect, we are!) and cringed and laughed and eventually – successfully! – got through “breakfast.”
(He tells me it was perfectly tasty.)
And frankly, I’m delighted that my husband still has an appetite for the occasional morning muffin.
.
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