Is it true that "Love means never having to say you're sorry?" If so, hubby must love me a whole lot. That man would not apologize for anything, no matter how clear it is, to me at least, that he is IN THE WRONG! I, on the other hand, apologize MY ASS OFF if I see that it (whatever "it" is) is my fault. Does he really not see that what he has said (sarcastic, demeaning remark) is hurtful? When I show my displeasure (usually by throwing up my hands and saying something like, "FINE! I'll just shut up and never say anything again," or stomping out the door and driving around the block ten times) he accuses me of "acting nutty" and asks me if I forgot to take my medicine (Zoloft) today. I reply, icily, that "Of course, I took my medicine!" whether I did or not.

Is it just the "Mars, Venus" thing? Are men inherently unable to admit fault? To fucking apologize? Or at least, switch gears and be extra nice? Hmm. He does do that sometimes. That helps, but it's not as satisfying as I think it would be if he'd just say, "I'm sorry, Baby-doll. Come here and let me comfort you."

Oh well. He cooks, he helps with the housework, he's nice at least half of the time and he's good in bed. What the hell am I complaining about?

The night is hot and steamy, and so am I. It was on a night like this, many years ago, that boyfriend du jour and I were rolling around on the floor, fucking like dogs in heat, in the heat, until we were sweating buckets and completely satiated. We let go of one another and rolled onto our backs, smiling and catching our breaths. He started stroking me affectionately, and one of his fingers dipped into my bellybutton, which was filled to the brim with sweat. Not just my sweat, but our sweat, and BF hadn't bathed for a while, which was part of his charm. Struck suddenly by an unwise, romantic impulse, BF announced that he would "sip my nectar," and put his lips to the naval goblet. I heard a small "slurp" and then a shriek, followed by a great deal of spitting and swearing. I laughed until tears rolled down my sweaty cheeks. "It's not funny," he insisted, but he was wrong.

In case you guys don't know it, let me tell you that one of women's favorite subjects of discussion is the performance of their lovers. Once upon a time, long ago and far away, my sister, Sophie, and I were chatting about our favorite subject, and she told me that she and her husband had tried something new and delicious. She had just peeled a banana and was about to take a bite, when he sidled up to her and suggested a better use for that banana. Sophie thought that sounded like a good idea and laid back and got comfortable. Sam slid that banana into her vagina and then preceded to eat it...slowly. Sophie said that she came like a freight train before the fruit was half gone.

That sounded pretty interesting to me, so next time the boyfriend-du-jour stopped by my place I told him about it. He had us both out of our clothes before I could mention that I had no bananas on hand. The only fruit in my kitchen was a bunch of grapes. Hey, no problem! All I will say is, it was a lot easier putting them in, than it was getting them out. The train was derailed and we never tried that again.

Darn! I just remembered that I had been planning to talk about sweaty sex. Maybe next time.

Okay, I'm trying a new font. It's Trebuchet. It's the color of my hair. It is much drier than my hair, however. And why is my hair not dry, you ask? Because it is so FUCKING HOT AND HUMID in here I am sweating profusely. I feel like I'm going to slide off of the goddamned chair!

There, I got that off my chest. My sweaty chest. Now, for tonight's topic...sex with vertically-challenged men. This has been a subject of great interest to me ever since I was in my teens and heard the little verse, "When they're nose to nose, his toes is in it. When they're toes to toes, his nose is in it." It occurred to me that his tongue was no doubt in close proximity to "it" as well, and that could be incredibly convenient. So I thought of that tonight, as my hubby and I were watching "Wheel of Fortune" and one of the contestants was very (maybe 3 feet?) short. He was with his fiancee, who was much taller. He was a handsome little devil, and I could not help but speculate on the size and potential rigidity of both his tongue and his cock. His fiancee was very pretty and looked happy, so my imagination took off like a greased cheetah and it wasn't long before I had to ask hubby to get down on his knees.

Now, where was I? Oh yes...heat and humidity. I hate heat. I hate humidity. I hate sweat, especially when it's trickling down every crevice of my body. Uh-oh, I just thought of a good subject for tomorrow's post.

Hoo-boy! Now that I know someone may actually READ what I'm writing, I am gripped with fear. What if Big Brother should get wind of my wind? What if my children stumble across my sordid soliloquies? What if my friends find out about my fuck-filled fantasies? Yeah? So? And what if a comet falls out of the sky and sends the earth to hell in a handbasket? I will no longer concern myself with such unlikely events. I'm just going to let 'er rip.

Wait a minute! What's that great big rocky thing hurtling through the sk...