Troubles and Treats

Chapter 1 – You Ruined My Pens!

Candles – check.

Flowers – check.

Deodorant – shit. Did I remember deodorant?

Raising my arm above my head and taking a whiff, I find I am all good. Nothing left to do but wait for Jenny to get home from her night out with the girls. Ever since our son Billy was born three months ago, Claire and Liz have to force Jenny to leave the house every few weeks so she can go out and have a few drinks with them. I love my wife to death, but getting her to leave our kids for a few hours every once in a while is like pulling my dick.

Okay, not the best analogy since I’ve made dick-pulling into an art form. Think of something really hard (HA! That’s what she said!) to pull and there you have it.

Taffy? Is taffy hard to pull? Dat laffy taffy, shake dat laffy taffy…What a good song!

Jenny had almost canceled tonight’s outing too—which I absolutely could not let happen. I have a surprise planned and for it to work, she needs to be far away from the house for a few hours.

It had taken me an hour of me begging and pleading for her to agree to go and enjoy herself, followed by thirty minutes of her locking herself in our room, crying because she thought I was sick of her and just wanted to get rid of her, which made me wonder for the hundredth time: where the f**k did my fun, outrageous, sexaholic wife go?

Gone are the days of pulling over on the way home from dinner to bang in the back seat of the car. Vanished into thin air are the nights of putting anal ease on my junk to see if I could still feel my orgasm. I couldn’t, by the way. Jenny also couldn’t feel her tongue or her lips for eight hours. Don’t try this at home, kids.

In fact, gone are the days of having sex at all. I have resorted to jerking off alone in the bathroom after my wife’s asleep. It’s a sad, lonely existence when you have to take your cell phone into the shitter so you don’t wake your wife when you pull up the YouPorn app and crank one out. The worst part is the SpongeBob SquarePants shower curtain in the bathroom. Do you know how difficult it is to keep an erection while SpongeBob is staring at you with his big, googly eyes and you keep hearing the song “Jellyfishin’, Jellyfishin’, Jellyfishin’” in your head?

Okay, it’s not that hard (yeah it is!), but still. It’s the principal of the thing. Every night for the past year I've hunched over the toilet bowl with my cell phone in my hand, furiously yanking my wank and hoping I don’t drop my phone into the water. Which only happened once, thank God. And you’ll be happy to know  p**n  still keeps playing under the water. It’s a bit fuzzy and the sounds of “Ooooooh, f**k me harder!” sound more like, “Mwaaaa, mwaaa, mwaaaaagurgle!”

When our daughter Veronica was born three years ago, Jenny’s already remarkable libido shot through the roof. It was like a dream come true. We had sex in the morning, for brunch at lunch, at night for a midnight snack, on the baby’s changing table, in a Walmart bathroom, in three neighbors' pools and one neighbor’s hot tub, and one really strange night that involved the jungle gym at the park, a free range chicken, and sparklers.

Jenny had been insatiable, and I actually wondered if my dick would fall off from overuse.

I'll tell ya, though, what a way to go. “Oh man, did you hear about Drew? His dick fell off. Yeah, just separated from his body and plopped to the floor. He just got done having monkey sex with his wife on the roof of their house though, so it’s all good.”

I honestly don’t know what happened to make everything change. Billy had been a planned pregnancy so it’s not like the shock of her getting pregnant again put a bucket of cold water on her vagina. It's like the day the stick turned pink, her lady bits put up a giant “Out of Business” sign.

Do not enter, closed for repairs, zombies will eat your face if you try to touch this vagina.

I've tried everything. I've whispered sweet nothings in her ear like, “My penis misses your vagina,” and “I heard a rumor that your love canal misses my jizz.” Nothing. I know, I can’t believe it either.

I know Billy’s pregnancy was a lot harder on her than Veronica’s. She'd been sick a lot, and Veronica was in the middle of the Rotten-Horrific-Appalling-Terrifying-Twos. No, I’m not joking. Fuck the Terrible Twos. I half expected our sweet little daughter to cut off our heads while we slept at night and feed our bodies to rabid dogs while overdosing on ring pops and Lucky Charms. One minute she was hugging us and telling us she loved us and the next she was running around in circles screaming about sugar and throwing toys at our heads. Jenny was freaked out by Veronica’s behavior and sick all the time from the pregnancy so sex had gone on the back burner. Like, the back burner twenty miles down the road at someone else’s house back burner.

But tonight, I am going to fix it all. I am bringing sexy back, bitches!

I can’t take one more night of playing pull and tug with SpongeBob. Aside from the fact that I’ve watched every single YouPorn video ever made—twice—I’ve also read every story on Erotica dot com, and when I started reading the stories just to see how they ended instead of for the sex scenes, I knew I was in deep shit.

I've spent the last few weeks trying to come up with the perfect plan. Carter had suggested I sit down and talk to Jenny about what’s bothering me but that just seems like something a chick would do. I don’t need to cry and talk about my feelings. I just need to have sex with my wife.

I’m too nervous to do anything but sit on the couch and stare at the door. At nine o’clock, Jenny’s car pulls in and she's unlocking the front door. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">