Fiddley Gomme - Sex

Be Sure To Snatch One Up For Yourself

Pete — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 21:29:50 -0700

Donna invented a new dirty word while we lay in bed Sunday morning basking in the glorious silence of children on vacation. WITH NO PANTS ON.

Mess kit.

So that she can never deny it, I posted the definition on Urban Dictionary.

Zoloft: Month 1

Pete — Mon, 19 May 2008 16:00:26 -0700

I put off taking anti-depressants for years. I was ashamed to admit I needed them. I was afraid of going to the doctor. I was afraid I would become someone else. I was afraid of losing my sex drive.

Now that I've been on them for a month I can't imaging a time when I won't want to take them. My mood has dramatically improved and, frankly, I haven't missed my sex drive. In fact, now it's Donna who lays wondering why I went to bed so early with nary a thought about performing the marital act while I sleep like a cat in a patch of sun. Content and happy.

Now I just know some of you are going to get all up in my face about how much I bitched about Donna and her lack of libido back in the day. And how I used to go on and on about how much it kept me up at night. All I can say is, I think I understand a little better what it's like not to want it all the time. Or to pretty much never have it occur to you.

I don't miss it either. It's not like the plumbing is broken of anything. I just don't feel like doing anything with it. Ya know?

As for becoming someone else. I can't really speak to that because I don't observer myself objectively very well. But I feel like I'm the same as I was, except that I'm not shaking uncontrollably when I'm around people and I haven't even once felt like keying anybody's car.

Now The Parade Of Boys Begins

Pete — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 21:51:15 -0800

It started like this, "Dad, can I go to the movies with Tyson?"

"You mean with Tyson and his parents?"

"Well..."

"You mean with Tyson and his parents?"

"Dad!"

"You mean with Tyson and his parents."

Megan pulled the cell phone from her pocket and, without dialing, said, "Umm... your parents have to go with us."

Ah, so Tyson was behind this. And he was on the phone. Loudly, I finished Megan's thought, "AND NOT JUST TO DROP YOU OFF."

At this point I clearly recognized the direction of Tyson's scheme. I had been there myself not so many years ago. OK, it was a lifetime ago but I knew what the little snot was thinking. He's thirteen. He was thinking, "I can haz brastrap?" And he would work every angle to make it work out so he ended up alone in a darkened room with his pimply butt as close to Megan's as possible.

"How about if we meet a bunch of other kids there?" This was clearly the boy's idea.

"AND HIS PARENTS?" I had my caps lock on so he could hear me. I was a step ahead of him and I wanted him to know it because Megan didn't see where he was going with this. Or worse... she knew exactly where he was going with this.

"My dad says your parents have to go with us... uh huh... ok... good idea. I'll ask."

I knew what she was about to ask because I spent a lot of time in my teenage years working a situation to be alone with girls I liked. And I was good at it. Tyson would not get the chance to be good at it this time.

She parroted verbatim his grand idea, "what if Tyson and some other kids came over here to watch a movie?"

Just as I expected. This is a classic misdirection technique. A mom might have fallen for this and then not known how to handle it. In fact, if you are reading this right now thinking, "sounds like a good compromise" then just come to terms now with your daughter becoming the neighborhood spin-the-bottle champion.

See, the plan works like this. You take advantage of the fact that the girl's parents think their own home is a safe environment no matter what. This is the easiest way to get the parents to stop paying attention to what you are doing. They get distracted by their regular around-the-house routine and, if you are quiet enough, almost forget that you are there... in the dark... with their daughter.

If you don't believe me, remind me to tell you about any of the dozens of times Donna and I had sex in her parents basement while they watched a movie in their bedroom just up the stairs. When you take a girl out somewhere else and try and get in her pants, her parents ask her all kinds of questions. Since young girls aren't good at lying yet, the parents always find out. But they never think to ask what anyone was up to in their own house.

But knowing this put me at the advantage. I would not be tricked by his slight of hand. I would let him come to my house then I would watch him. By watching him, he would know that I knew. Then I will mock his squeaky voice and verbally question his masculinity right to his face. This would let him know that I was cool but clearly much superior to him. He would know that I had invented the game he was playing and that he would never trick me.

And if none of that works... I can always just punching him in the face and throw him in the snow in his baggy jeans and hoodie.

"Yeah, go ahead and invite a few friends over for a movie. Sounds like a good idea."

Unexplained

Pete — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 16:08:39 -0800

I've had a hard time catching up on my sleep lately. After a couple days on the road and a weekend full of shows and rehearsal I was finally able to sleep in on Sunday morning.

Usually sleep-in mornings are interrupted by the kids or the dog or the insane urge to empty my fifty-nine gallon bladder. But this Sunday I was able to sleep soundly well into the ten o'clock hour. Which was followed by me not showering and instead watching television in my underwear until about one o'clock.

So far so good.

After a casual lunch of beer and stir-fry chicken that Donna whipped up we watched some sports on the big screen in the basement. Donna even "forgot" to wear her garments or go to church. Instead we just lounged and shooed the kids all day.

All-in-all, the very most perfect kind of a day I could ask for. But despite the relaxing day, I was still exhausted from both the week I had behind me as well as the one ahead. The week of a new show opening is always late rehearsals and very little rest. So when Donna came to bed around midnight and snuggled up close I simply wasn't in the mood.

It wasn't long before Donna was in tears wondering where she had gone wrong to deserve such a rejection. She hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, she'd done everything just about exactly right. Oh, I could have used a little working-up or whatever and I still find myself skeptical of her sincerity in these matters because of our truckloads of sexual baggage. But that wasn't really it. Whatever it was though was keeping me completely uninterested.

Minutes later, our entire past, as it always does, had once again made its way into our argument and our perfect day was ruined. We went to sleep angry and I woke today feeling weary and achy. We both did our best to pretend nothing was wrong but it clearly was.

I feel bad that she feels bad but find it hard to apologize for feeling how I felt. I wasn't interested and I would have felt ridiculous pretending that I was. Probably worse than I feel now.

Commitment Issues

Pete — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 22:15:40 -0800

So I had this ambitious idea that I would kick ass on this whole NaBloPoMo thing. That ambition got me exactly two days in before a Saturday full of rehearsal, a show, and a beer-and-karaoke-filled birthday party for Sarah distracted me. So, unless you count drunken Twitters and iBlog entries, I am a total failure at the daily posting thing. Just add that to the pile of things I'm a total failure at.

On the upside, Donna and I are keeping up on our other once-a-day-every-day-of-November commitment. We call it NaFuEvDaMo.

I assure you, I will try very hard to keep it up.

Tit For Tat

Pete — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 17:34:35 -0700

"I think you should do more shows at the theater."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"So I can get a boob job."

"OK. But if I'm buying you new, expensive tits then you have to show them off. I mean, if I'm going to restore an old car I'm not going to leave it in the garage where no one can see it."

"OK. So I can get a boob job?"

Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Wife?

Pete — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 14:45:17 -0700

Last week, after I got back from New York, I was flooded with a rush of emotions. Some of which had everything to do with my trip and my personal regret about not having followed my dream to be the cliche struggling actor, scraping by in the city. Others had been festering for a while and just came along for the ride once the gates were opened. Still others were nothing new and are the same old things that always get thrown into the mix.

It's no secret that Donna and have more than our share of painful history together. It's also not news to any regular reader of this site that, while each of us has done a lot of work and come a long, long way, it's very likely that there will never be a time when we are free from the burden and hurt of those common experiences. There are some issues that no amount of therapy will help us overcome.

The long and the short of it is that while Donna is a terrific person for whom I have a great deal of love I most often feel like we each spend a lot of time disappointing each other. And while that's certainly not unique to our marriage, the combination of those incompatibilities and our rocky history might make it hard for either of us to get close enough to each other for either of us to ever be as happy as we might be apart. Does that make sense?

Towards the end of last week, as the culmination of these factors made me an intolerable ass to be around, I let on that I was having these thoughts and feelings. And while Donna admits to sometimes feeling the same things, she was understandably devastated and hurt to hear it out loud. The result of that discussion was what I can only describe as a renewed effort on her part to be more expressive.

Since last week she has become open to the idea that living and working in New York might be something of an adventure. And while a move to the big city isn't extremely likely possibility, she is clearly acting outside of her normal bubble.

Donna's also making an effort to participate more in my reality. She spent most of Friday evening backstage cavorting with the cast. She even brought beer. Which she stood in line in a public grocery store to buy. You may also have noticed her increased participation on here as well as on Twitter. I think she's had a sense that this internet world is a big scary place full of Democrats, academics, hippies and other inherently evil people.

Let's all prove her wrong, OK? I mean, yes, you're all a bunch of liberal, free-thinking hippies but you're all super nice, right?

There's also been some other surprisingly unsettling changes in her behavior. She has decided to become much more sexually expressive. All weekend between pestering me for physical attention, she made some minor changes to her underwear routine and converted the shag rugs to hardwood floors. Oh and suddenly and without warning I'll find her doing things to herself and me that would make Spencer Kimball blush.

I say this is all unsettling because it is a complete change in direction. I have been put off-center by it to the point that I don't know quite how to react. Of course I like what's happening and I want to be positive and supportive. On the other hand, I don't completely trust her sincerity and I am taken off-guard by it.

She told me this morning that she's really making an effort to find out who and what she wants to be. I, for one, can certainly understand how difficult and exciting that can be.

Here's wishing her luck on her journey.

At Your Cervix

Pete — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 06:26:24 -0700

Because we've decided that five is simply one too many weddings to finance before we're forty-five, Donna has had an intrauterine device entrenched in defense of her fertile-as-the-Tenessee-River-valley uterus for a couple of years. Crammed in her cervix just like God intended. Or wherever it is they jam those things.

Sorry, I haven't had a close look for myself lately to know the specifics. Also, I don't think cram and jam are the exact terms that reproductive medical professionals use for this sort of installation. It does send and receive SMS messages though, so that's cool. At least, I presume that it does based on what our insurance company paid for it. I mean, for nine-hundred bucks, it had better have an IP address and run some flavor of UNIX.

Being the high-tech, bionic fishing lure that it is, the IUD requires some kind of regular maintenance. Lube and oil change, probably. So Friday Donna took it in for its fifty-thousand mile maintenance and to have her airbags safety inspected.

Ever since the first time we had sex after the IUD was implanted, I've complained that I can feel it poking my wiener during the sacred act. So much so that I am often a bit reserved when it comes to... um... fully athletic thrusting. I asked her to ask Dr. Ticklefingers to have a look to make sure the bobber or sinker... or whatever wasn't hanging off of her lady bits into her V-J-J... or whatever.

After her appointment I got a phone call from Donna.

"Hey, Dr. T offers his compliments."

"Oh, Why? for having such a fabulous vagina at my beck and call?"

"No. He says he had a look at the IUD and that it's far enough in my cervix that it would take a pretty impressive tool to find it all the way up there."

"Pff... figures. I guess this is the cross I bear. The thick and lengthy cross I bear."

"Uh oh..."

"What?"

"You're going to blog about this, aren't you?"

"Umm... maybe."

Menage Quatro

Pete — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 16:29:34 -0700

Every now and then a few people from the office get together for a beer after work. It's never a formal affair and it's not always the same exact group of people. It's more one of those, hey if anyone wants to go for a drink we're meeting at the bar down the street, kinds of things.

Yesterday was one of those days. A couple people mentioned that, some people were getting together and did I want to come? So I dropped by long enough to have a beer and be on my way.

I was the last to arrive and there were only three others there. All women. Let me take this formal opportunity to say that I did not plan for this to be me and all women. I had no ulterior motives. I made no scheme to arrange to be the only guy in the group. It simply worked out that way.

Also, NOTHING HAPPENED.

I make a point of saying all that because when I got home, Donna made a point of asking me specifically who had gone to the bar. When I told her, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh... all girls."

Yes. All girls. Because my plan was to meet three women from the office and have sex with them right there in the bar. At. The. Same. Time. All in the twenty minutes between work and home while the Little League World Series played on the giant television in front of the other hundred and eighty customers.

Without the Holy Ghost to guide me, what else would you expect?

It's A Good Thing There Won't Be Showers

Pete — Tue, 10 Jul 2007 13:02:47 -0700

"Do you really need to take your water purifier with you?"

"I'll have you know, if I don't drink enough water on my trip, I might die."

"I'm more worried that you'll die from no sex for ten days."

"You're right. That's a real risk in the Grand Canyon."

"Just don't go gay... you know, like in prison."

"Right, because I hear a lot of guys doing ten days for driving without a license end up taking a prison wife... just in case."