Breaking Wind

Passing gas, dutch oven, toots, poots, farts etc. Not the best thing to have happen during the ramping up of Sexathon. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be this sweet southern Belle who does not discuss burping butts. My DH on the other hand has no preconceived social standards about such things.

So as you can imagine last nights assclapping experience was quite amusing and un-southernly sexy. When your husband rolls away from you slightly in the middle of foreplay and then you hear a percussion band warming up under the covers.....run. When the bed starts vibrating and you don't hear your husband breathing (because he's laughing so hard trying to be silent about it)....RUN SCREAMING. DO NOT WAIT...I repeat...DO NOT WAIT till the godawful smell of rotten eggs permeates the air. By then, its too late, and all your dignity will be gone as you scream like a banshee at him and run from the room without underwear and your cami top pulled down around your boobs gasping for oxygen. Ten minutes later when your bedroom doesn't smell as if a large rodent crawled between the mattresses and died, its a little hard to get back in the mood. Especially when your husband still has bursts of giggles (yes, I said GIGGLES) while pinching your nipples.

I realize that we didn't have much luck with the sexcapades last month because Clomid made me complete unsexy and tempermental. I realize that my darling husband is in essence a child trapped in a really tall body, but seriously, his farts can run you out of the room. Yes, I'm guilty as well. I'm not claiming my toots don't stink because frankly, I don't know what we ate this weekend but everything was foul! I, however, know where the bathroom is.

Ladies, hands off, he's all mine. I know it breaks your little hearts that I get this hunk of toxic waste processor all to myself, but try to keep your pitypat hearts in check. He's mine.