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And You Can Forget Vacation Sex

My husband and I, of course, never have sex. That would be disgusting.

(Ok, that first line was in case anyone from my family reads this. We can continue.)

There was a LOT of driving.

There was a LOT of driving.

My husband, Mike is, of course, the greatest lover of all time.

(Ok, THAT line was for Mike. He definitely stopped reading after that, so we can continue… As soon as I stop laughing.)

Over the holidays, Mike, Gordon Labradoodle and I took a three week vacation that included a week with his mother on the west coast of Florida, a week with my parents on the east coast of Florida, and then a week in Isle of Palms, South Carolina, which was a vacation from the first two vacations.

Staying with family for the first two weeks meant no hanky panky. We’d rather sell ourselves as Russian brides in Silicon Valley than touch with our parents in nearby rooms. In addition, families on both coasts provided us with queen-sized beds (the point of which I’m not sure). You put a six-foot-two dude, a chick with a pasta fetish and a sixty-five pound Labradoodle who likes to s   t   r   e   t   c   h    o   u    t  in a queen bed and you’re lucky if you can breath, let alone fool around. That Queen was either lonely or had some sort of eating disorder to pick that size for her bed.

Go somewhere else, you say? We’re not teens, people. We’re not sneaking around in the backseat of cars. Hell, if we tried that our backs would go out and we’d never stand up straight again.

So, cross off the first two weeks of vacation for sexual activity. That’s fine. We’re not animals. But you’d think during the third week, by ourselves in a king bed in South Carolina, things would be more relaxing.

Not so much.

First, I was skeeved out by the VRBO rental. It was sort of more tired than I hoped and everything just felt a little dirty. We dribbled a bit of juice on the sofa and when I cleaned it off, I realized the sofa wasn’t brown, after all. The spot I cleaned was beige. Gack. Mike looked under the sofa at one point and he’s still going to therapy over it. He won’t talk about what he saw. He just curls in a ball and rocks back and forth.

It’s hard to get in the mood when you keep eyeballing the duvet cover, waiting for it to move by it’s own volition.

A LOT of driving.

At least the wi-fi connection worked for three minutes out of every sixty. I had that going for me.

Second, the one time we did think maybe we could get into the mood, the whole thing just devolved into giggles and instead we pretended we were having vacation sex, making ridiculous screamy noises while the dog tried to attack us thinking the whole thing was a game.

That’s when I saw something move outside our window.

What the… 

There it went again… like a… stick? 

I crept to the window. I saw a man in our backyard, cleaning the pool. His super long stick was tall enough that I could see it through the second story window.

Now generally, when people are being sexy and suddenly a pool boy arrives with a super long stick, it’s a whole other thing. But this was a sixty year old guy and we’d just been screaming vaguely vulgar things and laughing our asses off at top volume.

We ran to the far recesses of the house and held our breath until he left, hoping he didn’t hear. If he had, he probably would have called the police. Sane people don’t scream “The Falcon flies at midnight!!” at the top of their lungs in the middle of the afternoon.

Finally, we returned home. It was so wonderful to be back in our own beds with our own filth. At least when I pulled a knife out of the drawer and found food dried to it, I knew it was my food.

I went to take a shower and found the soap empty. The only thing left was Mike’s Old Spice body wash. Rather than get out of the shower and tip-toe, soaking wet, to the closet for another bottle of my soap, I use the Old Spice.

Because nothing turns on your husband more than a girl who smells like a man, am I right, ladies?!

By the time I explained to Mike that holding me might give him prison flashbacks, we both lost interest and opted to eat, drink and watch movies instead.

Sex vs. a  nice lunch, some wine, a clean sofa and big screen TV…?  I think we made the right choice.

After all, our bedroom antics are less sexy and more like this…


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Amy Vansant

Amy Vansant

Author Amy Vansant enjoys long walks on the beach, anything to do with her Labradoodle Gordon and frantically getting nothing useful done.
Amy Vansant

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