Warning: This entry is not for the faint of heart. Or for the heartily faint. This blog post deals with real issues of carelessness, frivolity and one case of near-death maiming of a well-liked body part.
All right - but it's your own eyeballs that may need a'scrubbin':
The other day, in the bright and shiny very inviting aisles of Target I purchased a $20.00 bottle of lubrication for one's nether regions. The commercials were intriguing as they promised "Yours + Mine" would equal any number of earth-shattering endings. And me, being the adventurous sort was ready to try it. Oh, who am I kidding - I was really just hoping that "Yours - Mine" would equal instant o-gasms. No fuss, no muss and no sweaty, tangled hair to deal with afterwards.
Sunday night, as midnight looomed and the workday steadily approached like a beacon in a cubicle-clad nightmare I leaned over my husband and said - "So, c'mon - let's do it."
This was my sexy-talk way of asking for a round of coital bliss followed by watching the rest of "Iron Chef." That last part was implied, of course.
"Wow, honey. You sure do know how to make a guy feel special..." Harry muttered as I poked at his man panties. Which, of course, what he was really saying was "Oh, yeah, baby, let's do it! And then watch Bobby Flay win the Blue footed Chicken challange."
"Yay! You're ready!" I exclaimed, kinda amazed that he was able to keep a straight face, much less anything else, as I hovered around him like a spacecraft armed with the bottle of "Yours." I unceremoniously dumped the contents on him and flopped back on the bed.
"My turn!" Harry slowly ambled toward me and - emptied half the bottle. Some got on the intended area. The rest just soaked into the bed.
"That feels - weird." No - it didn't feel weird. It felt - burning. But I didn't want to tell Harry that. I mean, I had already been dubbed horribly unromantic by my hubby so the idea of telling him that our very expensive lubrication was not only enducing waves of panic from his wife but that she was also on FIRE!
And that's when it happened. "Yours" met "Mine" and I can tell you that the product lives up to it's promise of a night you will never forget because I'm positive Harry will never forget me screaming "OH DEAR GOD! IT FEELS LIKE BEN GAY! ON MY PRIVATE REGIONS! BEN GAY - IN BAD SPOTS!!!!"
Or the sight of me waddling from the bed, each rub of my thigh causing more flames to erupt like a 1970's drapery and hiking one leg up on the sink and trying to wipe away the hurt with a tiny white washcloth.
When that didn't work I grabbed the spray bottle that we keep on the basin and started spritzing myself with it. It was like trying to put out an inferno with a squirt gun - and all the while Harry's leaning in the doorway, naked and noticeably NOT on fire while I continue to do everything but stop, drop and roll away my pain.
"Who told you about this stuff, anyway?" he asked as I dove into the shower and directed the head downward.
"Summer did! She said it was great!" I poked my head out of the shower and said "I hate her."
She later said that she had actually not tried KY's "Yours + Mine" before but thought it looked fun. And I, being the lovely sister that I am, offered her our leftovers.
After all, all's fair in love, war and not-so-personal lubricants.