It was Tripp’s birthday the other day. To celebrate, we had an orgy. I’d love to tell you about the roomful of hot, sweaty men all coming over everything, but it was an orgy of gluttony (didn’t expect that, did you?)
It started out at lunch, where I went to the local megamart and got him a Tres Leches cake (his favorite). I also got a Vegan chocolate cake because one of our employees is Vegan (it was delicious, btw). We also had festive cupcakes and cotton candy twinkies, because why not? Also, there might have been margaritas.
For dinner, the love of my life wanted Krispy Krunchy Chicken (available at your local Circle K or gas station), which was also delicious, although a bit spicy for me (I’m such a white boy).
Now, this is where you expect me to talk about all the sex we had. However, the truth is that both of us sat around bloated, gassy, and my diabetic husband’s insulin pump was probably overheating. We stared at each other on the couch, both incredibly uncomfortable, both swearing on the almighty that we will never, ever do this again (of course we will), and neither of us feeling the least bit sexy or remotely interested in anything but gas-x and a nap.
Once upon a time, this might have been a sexier post. I mean, there has been some seriously good birthday sex in the past. One birthday, Tripp got fucked in every room in the house. But we were younger, healthier, and hornier then. Well, I’m still usually horny, but absolutely not that night. Mostly I wanted to crawl into bed and die quietly.
That’s what love really is. It’s laying miserably on the couch with someone who’s flatulence is so bad that the dog leaves, feeling miserable and bloated and thinking “I love this man”
Happy Birthday my love.
-Doc