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Sex Or Oven Cleaning? That Is The Question

When I'm uncomfortable I use exaggerated humor to fill conversational gaps. It's like an oddly misplaced stand-up routine which can become painful to watch. This was one of those nights.
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That's the question I was faced with the other night... and after a decade plus of marriage, I chose to clean my oven. No, that wasn't a metaphor.

Recently, I went to a sex party, which one of my friends was co-hosting. Upon entering, I was quickly introduced to the "Sexpert."

"Jenny this is Julie, she is a penis expert." No joke, that's how she was introduced. This made me wonder: Why people don't introduce me as something cooler?

"That's funny. I'm somewhat of a penis expert myself," I said, buffing my nails on my shirt as if cleaning an apple. Then I blathered something about not being a pro like her, because I didn't want to jeopardize my amateur status. You know, for the Olympics? Jenny what the hell are you talking about? Did you just mention the Olympics? The Olympics of what -- hand-jobs? Just shut up, already.

Sometimes when I'm uncomfortable I use exaggerated humor to fill conversational gaps. Did I say use? I meant abuse, like in the form of an oddly misplaced stand-up routine which can become painful to watch and often requires more than a two drink minimum.

"Oh, what do you do?" she asked, not knowing what to make of my schtick. "Are you a urologist or something?"

"No, I'm just a slut."

Really, Jenny? Did you just say that? What's the matter with you?

"I'm not really a slut, I've just... seen a penis or two in my day." Well, that fixed it.

Now, if someone could offer me a drink or something, I could make some un-PC reference like, "No thanks I got drunk on the ride over."

Ba-dum-bum... please don't forget to tip your waitress.

Leaving me to recover from my awkward comedic spewing, Julie went off to set up her consortium of vibrators and other paraphernalia. I soon realized that my party mates were intrigued by Julie's products and the impact they could have on their sex lives.

I'd originally pegged these girls as tame and conservative, but those are the ones you gotta look out for. By the sheer gleam in their eyes, I would wager that all of them signed on after reading Fifty Shades of Grey, at least one had a secret playroom and maybe two more frequently used a "safe-word."

Should I be intrigued by these items as well? Nope, I'm an observer. I'm just here for research. Of course, that implies that any purchases are write-offs. So, I may have to buy something. I mean, who aside from a hooker can write-off a vibrator?

Our instructor pulled out the "Bunny" the "Koala Bear," the "Humming Bird" and the "Elephant." Why are they all animals? I rarely think of animals when I'm trying to have an orgasm. (Unless they're just costumes with Brad Pitt underneath.)

Finally, she pulled out what she called The Mother of all Vibrators -- the "Octopus:" It had so many arms, too many arms (if you catch my drift). Plus, so many options... It was the Swiss Army knife of sex toys.

It wiggled, jiggled, pumped, undulated, swerved, lurved, fluxed, rolled, snorfed, found your G spot, changed a flat and updated your Facebook status after every orgasm. She went on to show us the features and mid sentence she dunked it in her latte. "Did I mention it's waterproof?" She giggled as she used it to refroth her milk.

I was somewhere between: "Yuck" and "that could be useful."

"I appropriately dub thee: The Divorcer," I said getting a laugh out of my party mates.

So, I left with the urge to come home and show my husband that we didn't NEED to enhance our already perfect, albeit infrequent, sex life with toys.

However, when I got home, the first thing I did was clean my oven -- and I don't mean that metaphorically.

You see, I'd left my oven on self-clean and my house smelled as if it had been broiled. How could I, in good conscience, go to bed or "to bed," without wiping off the residue? (It wasn't like the residue would still be there in the morning.)

A decade ago, the answer to "sex or oven cleaning?" would've been a no-brainer. But, after 12 years of marriage many of us can flip that switch to off, faster than we can run to a crying kid at 3AM (and that's fast).

So, there I stood, well crouched, tipsy, children in bed, at 11pm, in white skinny jeans and stilettos -- cleaning my oven. If my hubby hadn't been fast asleep since 9:30, he may have stumbled onto the Skinemax scene that was going on in our kitchen.

Though to be fair, if he would've walked in on this scene... (after a decade of marriage) he wouldn't even notice. Hmmm, maybe our sex life could use some enhancing... that or we just need a better cleaning lady.

Tap, tap... is this thing on?

Read more from Jenny at her blog: The Suburban Jungle
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