The movies and television portray lovemaking in a way that makes it look sexy and smooth. Everyone is made up nicely and no one's hair ever falls out of place and both people writhe and moan in a way that lets you know they are having the time of their lives. This is generally not the case in real life, and last night I had a crushing reminder that I do not live in a movie, at least not a serious one.
My editing department, aka Richy, and I decided to get romantic last night. Friday night has been our standing date-night and we had been looking forward to some alone time that evening. We had a fun night of delivery pizza and cheese sticks, Breaking Bad on Netflix, and a bottle of wine. We finished Breaking Bad, (How insane is that show?) and decided to call it a night. Then we made our way to the bedroom.
Being a healthy, committed couple in a relationship, we began to engage in romantic behavior. Richy gave me a backrub, then a leg massage. I sportingly let him. This kind of hanky- panky continued until we were in a state of undress and he gently began to kiss me. I continued to encourage this behavior. He kissed my shoulder, and my arm as I moved my leg (this is important, not just a play by play of my sex life), anyway, I moved my leg over his upturned arm.
Now, I have his wrist and hand basically sandwiched between my upper thighs, right in that super tender flesh just before you reach the holy land. Things were beginning to heat up as he nibbled at me and I moaned as he bit at my neck and HOLY SWEET JESUS, MOTHER OF GOD! In our heated state, he had suddenly jerked his hand out from between my legs, in a passionate move, but his watch clasp had caught a piece of my tender, oh so tender, inner thigh and ripped a four inch gash across my leg.
You know the pain that happens where you can't say anything or even make a noise because all of the air has left your body, and frankly, a piece of your soul has left too? You are just left open-mouthed, gasping for air like a goldfish out of water? Yes, that is the pain I felt go searing up my leg. God knows I tried to be sporting about it. At first, for maybe thirty seconds, I didn't say anything. I thought I could carry on like nothing happened. Then all those pain receptors in my brain finally caught up with my rationale. In a moment of panic, I pictured other tender parts getting caught in Time’s Clasp of Doom and being ripped off of my body. I immediately decided that the watch had to go.
In the squeaky voice I managed to eek out of my body, I asked Richy to please take his watch off. He said okay, but asked why. Well, now I had to tell him that it had scratched me. He asked if I was okay, and still, not having moved, I tried to lighten the mood by telling him I was fine, but just going to lie still and bleed to death. I could hear his eyes rolling from where I was laying because I do tend toward the dramatic. He stopped what he was doing and reached over and turned on the lamp to see the damage.
“Oh god, baby” was the first thing he said as his eyes saw the slash in my thigh. Richy felt just awful, and I tried to assure him I would be fine in the morning, but the mood was definitely off for me. Then, once I moved my leg, that scratch felt like it was on fire! Richy ran to the bathroom and came back with a cool washcloth and some Neosporin. That helped a little, but the scratch still stung so badly, he went back and got the burn cream that has lidocaine in it. He tenderly applied it to my leg and the pain got better after the instant searing pain of lidocaine in an open wound. He gave me a pair of his boxers to wear so it could get some air. He really did his best to get me comfortable again, which I appreciated so much.
After the laughter and streak of lava on my leg died down, Richy tried to get things started again. But at that point it really was over. Somehow the words “Do I need to get the gauze?” didn't rekindle the flames of passion.
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