Strangely enough my mojo seemed to elevate during the Lyla and Tyra Collete scenes. My wife's arousal seemed to spike with the arrival of Tim Riggins' on-camera time. I found myself feeling like the fifth wheel when Riggins would tussle his dumb hair or gaze into Lyla's soul with those gorgeous eyes. "Should I leave you two alone?" I joked to my wife. She didn't seem to hear me as she was clearly fantasizing about being ravaged in the back of Riggins' pick-up, parked underneath the Dillon High Bleachers. "Hey, that's my wife you got there, Riggins," I moronically felt like screaming to my laptop.
A few moments later, I began closing in on an orgasm. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was my wife, but as luck would have it, my big moment coincided with a tight Landry close-up followed by some serious Buddy Garrity screen time. NO, NO, why was this happening? I thought to myself. His giant, red, mailbox of a face staring dead at me—taunting me. Don't let me go out like this. At least give me … Saracen's mom? Mayor Lucy Rodell?! Santiago?! SOMEBODY ELSE. Damn you! The Frisky: Sex Diary: Award Groping, Meh-Makeout, Ex-Tension & An Emotionally Ambiguous Cuddle
It was futile. Suffice to say I had achieved an emotionally upsetting but surprisingly potent orgasm. My wife rubbed my back for 10 seconds and lovingly threw me off of her. We both lay quietly beside each other. Platonic and placid like two kids at a sleepover or two kittens nuzzled up. We watched the remainder of "Friday Night Lights" together—engrossed and unencumbered the way nature intended. A lesson well-learned: Sex-flixing is no 'smores.
By Amit Wehle for The Frisky