It was late Sunday afternoon. We had so much to do around the house that we'd given in and let the kids park themselves in front of a DVD. As soon as the movie title was up on the TV screen, Amy grabbed my hand, led me back to the bedroom.
This is too good to be true, I thought.
In the bedroom, door closed, she snaked her hands around the back of my head, pulled me into her mouth.
Waaaaaaaay too good to be true.
I wavered between going with the moment and questioning. When she finally broke the kiss, I asked point-blank: "Okay. What gives? Are you really starting something?"
She sounded deliciously sinister when she giggled. "No, I just wanted you to help me sort the dirty clothes in here."
Told you so.
"You know, I would have been happy to do that without the seduction. But now that I know how badly you want my help...." I started to unbutton my jeans.
"Ha ha," she said.
I was working on a pile of dress pants that showed my neglect via their desperate need for an iron, if not an all-out trip to the dry cleaners. Amy was sorting through lingerie and talking about how good she felt about the recent underwear purchases she (well, sometimes we) have made.
"It's my dream," she said from the closet, "to have matching bra-and-panty sets. Seven of them. One for each day of the week. Wouldn't that be awesome?"
I dropped my pants — oh, the ones I was sorting, sorry about that — and stepped to the closet. I locked my eyes on hers and searched for the perfect tone of voice that would deliver the high level of import I wanted my words to carry. I said:
"You. Must. Do this."
She started to smile, but my look confused her, and she wasn't sure what to do. "Huh?"
"Amy...." I put my hands on her shoulders. "Of all the dreams you have expressed, this is one of your most worthy goals ever."
She guffawed. But I continued.
"This is an exceptionally, egregiously, supreme goal. You must have seven matching bra-and-panty sets."
She rolled her eyes as she squeezed past me and headed back to the bed, where a pile of socks awaited. "I still can't tell if you're being facetious."
"I'm serious. You totally have to do this."
Okay, so I was being a little silly about it. But my reaction was only a slight exaggeration.
So what's the big deal? It's the fact that Amy might be looking at herself through a prism of sex appeal again. I mean, thinking this way outside of when I've gotten her all heated and horny. This may be the first time in ... what, years? Maybe.
Perhaps all my sorties of carnal reverence, my "shock and awe" blitzkrieg of ardor, have finally begun to chip away at the battlements that prevent her from realizing that this woman is smokin' hot. Amy carries herself with such confidence in her work environment; if her sexual self can find the strength to do the same ... well, there's no telling what might happen. Despotic empires could be destroyed. Literacy rates across our country could skyrocket. Reality television could fade from view. Gas prices could fall!
Of course, the concerns of global warming would increase greatly with the temperature emanating from her heaving, barely encased chest ... with the heat rising with the scent of appetite and ambrosia from the coordinated bottoms. But it's a small price to pay for my wife's new sexual esteem.
Not to mention, it'd be fun to get that panicked cell phone call from Al Gore.
"I'm sorry, sir, but if you saw Amy's ass in this sheer black number she slipped on this morning, you'd just ... What's that? You'd like a picture for future Powerpoint presentations? Well, I'll ask her...."