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My life is just like a romantic comedy. I mean, my current relationship basically mirrors the plot line from When Harry Met Sally, except instead of Mike and I having been friends for years and worrying if sex would ruin our relationship, we were friends for about a year during which time he had a snobby girlfriend with permo bitch face and I pretty much waited in the wings until she dumped him for a college in NYC, at which time I jumped his bones and made him fall in love with me.
But seriously, Mike and I are so rom-comy! For instance, I’ve gained some weight since we met, he’s not making enough money and we’ve been fighting over the pros and cons of dog ownership, you know, normal relationship stuff. So last week we decided to spice things up with a good old fashioned, romance-oozing, poem-worthy, Lover’s Pact. The idea came to me in an almost magical way…
“Mike, I feel fat and gross and weird and we’re not having enough sex which is my only form of exercise, so can we have sex more please?”
“Like, every day for a week?” Mike and I are no Romeo and Juliet, but we are hip and with it twenty-somethings from Southern California with a pretty good idea of how to bring the sexy back. Seven days of sex? Pssh, kids’ stuff.
“Sure!” We shook on it and Mike left for work. He told me I’d better be ready to go when he got home, preferably bent over the bed with my butt in the air. My big, huge, lumpy, relationship butt.
It was Sunday morning and I had exactly eight hours to transform into a sex goddess before Mike got home.
I had a lot of laundry and cleaning to do, and even though I wanted to save the champagne I’d been chilling in the refrigerator for sexy time later, surely Mike wouldn’t mind if I had a glass while tidying up.
Load after load went into the washing machine and glass after glass of champagne went down my throat. Suddenly, and without warning, it was 5:00! Mike would be home in a half an hour and I was wearing the exact same chic sweatpants ensemble from that morning, only with some additional grease and grime accessories from spending eight hours drinking and cleaning. I leapt into the shower, annihilated my leg while turbo shaving, and realized my period did NOT end as I had earlier presumed.
Mike came home to find his supposed sex-pot girlfriend wet-haired, naked-faced, half drunk, bleeding from the knee and wearing one of his old t-shirts. I got a little sniffly while I explained my period dilemma, but he understood and I ended up giving him a blow job for good measure. He told me tomorrow would be better and we both passed out happy and in love.
When I got home from work after a bullshit Monday at the office, Mike wasn’t home. He sent me a text reminding me that he was going out for drinks with coworkers to celebrate a birthday. I sent him a text saying, “What about the pact? My period is officially over!”
“If you’re up when I get home we’ll definitely have sex.” I was definitely asleep when he got home. No sex.
Tuesdays I host an MTV’s Catfish potluck party and knew I wouldn’t have time for love making once the gals arrived and the margaritas started to flow. It was imperative that we have sex that morning. I poked at Mike again and again but he wouldn’t budge. I guess he’d had more fun with the guys than I anticipated. “Babe, what about the pact?”
“Ughhhhhhh…” No sex.
Mike had the day off so we did happy hour at our local bar. What better way to set the mood than engaging in verbal foreplay over a few inexpensive cocktails? One turned into two, which turned into five, and we both passed out in our clothes. No sex and we felt like shit in the morning.
We had dinner at my mother’s house. Obviously no sex.
We went to an ultra-hip Silver Lake party. We met some celebrities but… No sex.
We were up as early as possible in preparation for attending not one but TWO red white and blue themed parties, which were on opposite sides of town. We left our house at noon and didn’t get home until well after midnight. Drunk, sunburned and bloated after a beer and hotdog-filled day, neither of us were in the mood for sexy time. We poured ourselves a glass of wine and watched some Roswell reruns. It was lovely and sweet and I felt okay about the fact that there would be… No sex.
I am such a Drew Barrymore with a mental disorder and Mike is totally Adam Sandler with commitment issues except, my relationship reflects that part of the rom-com that you don’t see. You don’t see the mundane life Drew and Adam have on their boat once the cameras stop rolling. Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan surely went seven days without sex during the course of their successful rom-com marriage. Sex happens when you let it. Life happens always.
Mike and I had sex on. It was in the morning and it was great. Afterwards we brought a pizza to the park and hung out with our friends. I am still a little chubby and Mike is still a little broke but our sex is good, we’re both happy, and together we’re living out our own happily ever after.
Thank you fanpop.com for this awesome movie still!
A former smoker and sex blogger, Nicky currently helps people get divorced in Beverly Hills while also volunteering for a domestic violence aid foundation in Downtown Los Angeles. There she assists women in obtaining restraining orders against their abusers. She is a happy feminist and a self-proclaimed man-dating lesbian who constantly steals her boyfriends clothes. Find her rants at vampsntramps.tumblr.com
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