‘Home’ can mean a great many things — it can be a place, a characteristic, an atmosphere, a person, a feeling, or any combination of the above.
Or all of the above.
Or both.
Early in my sexual relationship with my husband, he sort of went the ‘both’ route, in terms of what he called ‘home’; after the first time we had intercourse, he took to calling my vagina Home.
“Can’t wait to be home,” he’d say on the phone. It was a completely innocuous phrase to anyone who was eavesdropping, but for us it held a double meaning.
That feeling – of coming home, of being welcomed in, of bonding and acceptance and belonging – combined with the intimacy of purpose, the love and care between us, the right-ness of the entirety of What We Were… It made sense.
Home.
So ever since – for nearly 17 years (!!!!!) now – that’s what ‘home’ has been.
Given the changing landscape and unfriendly weather conditions in the region of Snatchville lately, one would think that perhaps he’d no longer feel ‘at home’ there.
But that’s not true.
The other day, after some bantering between us about the snow (and accumulating inches, and where I tend to find my inches when I decide I’m interested in them thankyouverymuch), the topic turned from the weather outside to the ‘weather’… erm… down below.
“Well,” I told him, contemplating the perpetual-cold I’ve been feeling but not forgetting his ‘home’, “I’m pretty sure that right now my vagina is an igloo.”
He smiled. “That just means I need to light a little fire in there.”
Home is where the heart{h} is.
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