"Yes, combine our needs. Sex-flix. It'll be like 'smores; two great things made better together."
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"Really?" she asked. I nodded with confidence. "Fine," she hesitated. "Let's give it a shot."
What ensued was not what most would consider lovemaking. It was not the union of two people—deeply enmeshed, emotionally and physically—majestically working together to achieve erotic bliss. In between establishing shots and minor plot lines, my wife and I would tug at each other's bodies and haphazardly fondle various private parts. During fade-outs we would turn to each other to quickly kiss or establish eye contact to acknowledge each other like two kids in a middle school hallway. At one point, my wife seemed to offer me her breasts solely for the purpose of occupying me so she could better concentrate on Coach Taylor's locker room speech.
Was this going well? I wondered. About ten minutes into the program, we were both fully aroused by the unfolding drama and marginally ready for intercourse. "Should we do it?" I asked my wife. Her eyes locked on the screen, she replied, "Sure," delivered in a short whisper as if we were bothering the show's characters. "OK, don't mind me," I said jokingly, "we'll just be having sex." During the mating, we jockeyed for position to get a clear shot of the screen. To a spectator it would appear more like a junior college wrestling match than a session of intercourse. A few times, my wife asked me to stop breathing so loud and on one occasion rolled me on my back so she could better control my movement. Eventually, we settled into a sort of steady "red light, green light 1, 2, 3" routine in which we would do our humping in calculated spurts and stop suddenly during important scenes. The Frisky: Girl Talk: A Guy Found My Nuva Ring. . .Inside Of Me