Most of my close friends know that Dan and I have an “arrangement”. I like to decorate. He likes blow jobs.
It’s not unusual for me to be standing in the cul-de-sac drinking a glass of wine with the ladies and say something like, “Well, I better get home. I have a new kitchen table to pay off.” Or for Dan to say, “How do you like your new office curtains? Here’s some Chapstick.”
It’s a win-win.
The other day Dan sent me an article entitled What Happened When I Had Sex Every Day for One Year. My first thought was to slide the email right into the trash folder and tell him it was “interesting.” Then I thought about the white sofa I had always dreamed of. I read the article with an unassuming curiosity. What intrigued me most was, not the daily dose of sex, but the witty, sharp writings of a woman. A fellow woman blogger who I admire and follow. (You can read Brittany’s article here.) I sent Dan the following email:
Re: Sex Every Day For A Year
Hey Babe, That’s totally a blog I follow! She’s so funny! FYI – I started my period today, but I’m willing to give it a try.
Later that night we were getting ready to meet some friends for a glass of wine and Dan said, “You want to start our one year of sex right now?”
We were already running late and I said, “You can have sex with me while I blow dry my hair.”
To which he promptly said, “Ok!”
“I was kidding! Is this how this is gonna go down for a whole year?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, if we’re going to be committed to it we’re gonna have to get creative,” he pursued.
So I agreed to have sex every day for a year. Every. Single. Day.
Then I ordered the white fabric for our sofa. Ha! You can’t play a player.
Wait! What just happened? What did I just agree to? Damn it! I just got played.
Well, I’m going to give it the old college try, which should get us through several months at least, because I do have a rather long wish list. A drum pendant for my office, new kitchen light fixtures, master bed – which, according to schedule, we can wear out by mid-November. Shit, this place is gonna look like the Biltmore Estate after a year of sex. Granted, I won’t be able to walk around and enjoy it. But it will be beautiful.
Don’t judge. Don’t act like you don’t persuade your husband with naughty promises for shoes or diamonds or whatever your fetish. Everyone does it. It’s the oldest proffession in the world and instead of receiving payment for my services I accept home furnishings. I also accept American Express Travelers Checks. Everyone benefits. Dan. Me. The economy. My local fabric store. My dentist. He doesn’t benefit from the actual blow job per se, but from the TMJ adjustments. Even Kevin Bacon benefits. It’s like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Dan and I have sex while watching The Food Network. They make bacon. Kevin’s last name is Bacon. See how that worked?!
Dan pulls up, rolls down the car window….”How much for sex?”
I look around, “One beveled mirror.”
“Deal,” he says.
So while I think I may have been prostituting myself out to my own husband, I do believe he has now turned this game around on me. Well played, Dan. Well played.