The Sex Lives of Strangers

10 Oct 2007

horse2.jpg

Doc's got a great post up currently. It reminded me of a couple I know, so I'll expand upon the comment I'd left there.

... The husband's a pretty good egg. Electrician by trade. Lives up in the Poconos, likes to sit around an outdoor fire on cool nights in a warm flannel shirt and work up a lazy buzz. Plays horseshoes and rubber quoits. Likes talking about old homes and restoration projects. Takes their enormous Newfoundland for walks along the lakeshore. The air's uncommonly fresh up there. Cool and brisk, the wind off the lake whisks all of your worries away to the next mountaintop. Time slows down. It's always relaxing there; you'd love it.

But, he's got an unusual side, too ... See, his wife seems to want sex all the time, yet he avoids it at all costs. (Other than that, they're an ostensibly happy couple.) Once, he apparently figured he'd solve the sex issue in a manner that one imagines he viewed as practical. He went out and bought her a dildo.

In his mind, I suppose this was equivalent to the statement: "Look, you want sex all the time; I'm happy without it. So, uh, knock yourself out." Problem elegantly solved -- quod erat demonstrandum. Only, for some strange reason -- one that, even here at BSUWG where the line I've drawn in the risque sands extends further out into that proverbial desert than most other weblogs, I do not want to explore -- he bought her what could arguably have been a device casted from a champion Clydesdale.

I'm not sure how that arrangement worked out for them. (Actually, I honestly don't want to know.)

On a considerably lighter note, I'll now switch gears and tell you a brief story about my mother's bathroom mirror (if for no other reason than to help you forget everything written above).

It was one such relaxing night around an outdoor fire when the wife offered me a tour of the abandoned cottage off in the woods nearby. A small fully-furnished home they'd discovered about a quarter mile away had been unoccupied since the early 1920s. The place was an untouched time capsule. Why no one bothered it (except that couple) in more than seven decades is a fascinating mystery when you think about it.

They'd come to view the house as their personal savings account. Anytime they'd run short of cash, they'd grab a settee or an armoire and sell it to an antique dealer. Long story short, she told me to take whatever I wanted. So, the enormous shield-shaped tiger oak mirror from, oh, the mid-1800s, that now hangs in my mother's bathroom was the prize. Heavy fucker, too. Carried it the whole quarter mile, half-drunk, through the woods.

Original Comments

Below, are the original comments on this post. Additional comments may be made via Facebook, below.

On October 10, 2007, Evil Genius wrote:

The mirror story was not sufficient to cleanse my mental palette.

On October 10, 2007, Beth wrote:

Take me to the cottage. Maybe I can find an antique "Clydesdale."

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