"Uh, no," I said and went back to reading my book, ironically titled, "Holly's Inbox."
"C'mon. Let's do it."
"No," I repeated. I was skanky. I had just spent the majority of the day cleaning and then had to iron his shirts for the upcoming week. After twenty minutes of sweating over a steaming iron I finally had Harry check the air conditioning unit. It was determined through a series of investigations - that the heat was still on. He was lucky to even be alive to postulate copulation much less retain the use of those prized parts after that incident.
"I'm skanky. Go away." I rolled on to my side away from him.
"Fine," he said. "Rapin' the wife, rapin' the wife, I'm rapin' the wife," he sang under his breath as he tugged on my star-bedazzled panties.
"Stop that!" I said, trying not to laugh.
"Hold still!" He smacked the cheek nearest to him.
"Harry!" I rolled over on to my stomach and put my face in the pillow - my lame attempts to hide.
"Now you've done it. That's it. Now you're gonna make me have to-" SLIIIIIIIIIIIIP! "Aghhh!" CRASH.
I popped my head up. "Hey! Where'd you go?"
"Ouuuuuuuuuuuuch..." Harry said from the floor. Apparently, in his attempts to collect upon his husbandly "rights" he ventured too close to the edge of the bed and his knee slipped on the 1,000 thread count sheets and ended up, face-down and spread eagle in the bedroom floor.
"You okay?" I asked in between loud fits of laughter.
"Uh huh. Owww."
"You done trying to rape me?"
"Uh huh. Don't blog about this."
"I wouldn't dare."