My girlfriend, Grayce — yes, I realize I’ve been writing about her a lot, but she doesn’t mind being blog fodder, and I’m not one to turn down free material — decided to have angry sex with her husband. Let me back up a sex here. Sec here. Grayce is married with kids. Those of you who are also married with kids know that, to put it in the most absurdly general terms possible, the amount of sex you have is inversely proportional to how many kids you have, despite all evidence being to the contrary. That is, the more kids you have, the less sex you have, even though you’d think if you have all those kids you’re a fuck bunny. There are exceptions to this rule, but I don’t hang out with those women because they’re too busy going to pilates while managing Fortune 500 mergers on their iPhones as Baby #47 nurses in an ergonomically correct sling made of organic fairy hair.
At the moment, Grayce’s sex life is vacillating somewhere between Carole Brady and Michelle Duggar, even though she only has two kids. So that blows monkey chunks if you ask me. And if you ask her. Which you can’t, so trust me when I say Grayce is not nearly as perky about her marital non-relations as those two Xanax Zombies, so mama needs to get some. I offered to give it up for her, but she doesn’t swing that way, and I’m still not so sure my stem-cell-research-based lesbian scheme is going to work out, so it was really just an “I’m here for you, dude,” offer, although she is pretty hot, so maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because Grayce doesn’t want to fuck me. She wants to fuck her husband. But the less they do the dance with no pants, the less she wants to do it because the more she resents her husband for choosing Angry Birds over what would, at this point, be very angry sex.
So this begs the question: What the fuck? What is it with men in their late 30s? It’s like we women finally catch up to men’s teenager-phase sex drives just in time for our husbands to go into men-opause. Thank you, God. We all get that you have a sense of irony. I can’t think of an example of nature-based irony here, but I’m going to tell myself that I’ll come back and edit this part later when I think of one, but I probably won’t. Anyway, yes, God is ironic, if only because Alanis Morrisette played It/Him/Her/That in Dogma.
So Grayce and her husband, let’s call him Will, because that shit’s funny and I feel like dating myself — not like, dating going out with myself dating, but dating, like, hey, look, I’m old and making out-of-date pop culture references dating — Grayce and Will are in a sex slump. No, Will is in a sex slump and Grayce is so keyed up I thought she was going to orgasm when we drove to lunch the other day and I went too fast over a speed bump. The girl needs a hand — or a vibrator — and the man will not help her out. Asshat.
So Grayce and I discussed her options: killing her husband seemed like a slightly extreme response. Divorce a little less so, but still very expensive. An affair isn’t out of the question, although I didn’t ask about that, but a good 25% of my girlfriends have admitted to me that they’ve dipped into another cookie jar during their marriages, so I’m going to say that’s not off the table. But what she really wants is sex with her husband. She’s not even looking for romance and flowers love making. The woman wants fuck-me-on-the washing-machine spontaneous sex, hair pulling, and quickies in the shower. Isn’t that what men always complain about? That sex gets boring and there’s no “chase” or excitement after a few years of marriage? I don’t get it. Damn near all the women I know want the same. fucking. thing. No pun intended. But I’m leaving it there because it’s funny. See, customer service, people. I’m all about it.
I challenged Grayce, who, after several weeks of non-sex (and that after a brief respite from another dry spell) was pretty fucking pissed and not interested in touching her man: “Have angry sex with Will this weekend and I’ll blog about it.” As mad as she was, Grayce took up the challenge and decided a little alcohol couldn’t hurt this whole process because she’s generally so annoyed with her non-fucking husband at the moment that the idea of fucking him is becoming less appealing by the day. What don’t men get about that? Being rejected is a turnoff. Women don’t like it. And last time I checked, men don’t either. So why are we usually expected to take one for the team when they’re in the mood and we’re not, but men never seem to give it up when they don’t want to?
Anyway, so here’s what happened. I know you’re all dying to know. I sure as hell was. Grayce texted me Friday night:
Gray, 7pm: Let the angry sex drinking begin!!
Me: Don’t drink so much you pass out. That won’t count. Drink enough that you forget WHY you’re mad at him but not THAT you’re mad at him, because it’s supposed to be ANGRY sex.
Gray: Any other demands? Geez.
Me: If you could throw a little butt fucking in there, the blog readers always think anal jokes are funny.
Gray: Yeah, no.
Gray, 9:14 pm: Wfshouldn’t bee long
Me: Um, apparently not.
Me: Nevermind. Have fun. But angry fun.
Gray: Oh, im anger.
Me: You’re drunk. Don’t get so drunk you don’t remember. I need blog fodder.
Gray: later potato
Gray, 12:12 am: Muther fuker!
Me: What? R u ok?
Gray: He passed out.
Me: Was he drunk?
Gray: NO. He was sneezmng, took sum Benadryl & passed out
Me: Ummmm, dude, I’m sorry.
Gray: Whatevs. Beating Halloween Angry Birds.
So, I don’t have a good closing here. Just, the woman went to bat for the blog, even if she struck out, and this shit’s for y’all, web dwellers, so I say we need to give Grayce some love. Leave her a note in the comments or on Facebook (where you should be following the blog, seriously). She likes dick jokes and, apparently, potato-based humor.