“Are you embarrassed that your husband talked publicly about having sex with thousands of men?” I ask him. Ten minutes is a triumph of passion and stamina. He hates it when I do that.Īnd yes, I said “the last ten minutes.” We have spent eight years together and we are both in the final stretch of our fifties. I know he’s hoping I don’t start recapping my favorite moments of the last ten minutes. “Yes, I know, I love you, too,” he responds, pulling up his boxer briefs and scanning the room for something to wear for the rest of our Saturday evening. I am so crazy about you…” I say, a bit boastfully, because I’m actually thinking of the skill with which I have just physically expressed that sentiment. My husband turns the fan switch higher and begins a search around the room for his underwear. The ceiling fan isn’t twirling fast enough to cool our bodies, not after the cardio workout we just had.
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