Liberated - Installment II
As I struggled to extract the giant ramp from the box, a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. Though it bore the banal header: “washing instructions,” its message resonated in a strange, unintended way with my own sex life. It read: “Because the engineered Microfiber is pressure sensitive, when you remove the packaging you may find the extended fibers compressed, not erect, as they should be. While this will not prevent you from using them right away, they won’t feel as luxurious as they were designed to and they may not perform in concert with each other as well as they should.” Such marvelous wording, I reflected. If only I had thought to label my own crotch with a similar disclaimer, how much simpler life would have become!
But that’s all in the past. I have to admit, going into this thing, the way I felt about having sex on a big furry ramp is akin to the way I feel about tongue piercing or about having the small of your back tattooed. If you think that what’s lacking in your sex life is a stainless-steel ball bearing or a customized bottom, the problem probably isn’t either of the two. But then again, I reminded myself, ours was not a pleasure trip. This was for the kids.
I unzipped the outer nylon shell and discovered within the sweet, furry nugget. The Microfiber was fuzzy and cozy — somewhere between teddy bear and pool table. I noticed no significant Microfiber compression, whatever such a thing may even look like. Equally pleased was I to find my penis wasn’t compressed either, but already stiffening in contemplation of the possibilities a giant triangle would afford us.
But it was premature. Being a man, I was ready to bend Raegan over the ramp and put her through the ringer, but as any good wife will remind you, when you buy sex furniture, first on the list of issues to address is that of where to put it. The ramp is so big it appeared we were going to have to rearrange some furniture. And as every man knows, there’s nothing that can kill a sexual feeling faster than the looming threat of interior decorating.
Our bedroom was not an option. There’s hardly room enough for the bed in there. The living room was a possibility, though our lack of window treatments would offer the neighbors an open view of the festivities. The basement had ample space and I liked the sort of dungeon feel it would lend to the occasion, but in the end we opted out. Mildew proved a turn-off, as was the thought of cracking our heads open on the concrete floor and the nightmare of having to explain everything to the paramedics.
I caught a glimpse of the Liberator literature and was relieved to discover the shapes are meant to be used on top of ones bed. Everything was clicking into place.
As I struggled to extract the giant ramp from the box, a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. Though it bore the banal header: “washing instructions,” its message resonated in a strange, unintended way with my own sex life. It read: “Because the engineered Microfiber is pressure sensitive, when you remove the packaging you may find the extended fibers compressed, not erect, as they should be. While this will not prevent you from using them right away, they won’t feel as luxurious as they were designed to and they may not perform in concert with each other as well as they should.” Such marvelous wording, I reflected. If only I had thought to label my own crotch with a similar disclaimer, how much simpler life would have become!
But that’s all in the past. I have to admit, going into this thing, the way I felt about having sex on a big furry ramp is akin to the way I feel about tongue piercing or about having the small of your back tattooed. If you think that what’s lacking in your sex life is a stainless-steel ball bearing or a customized bottom, the problem probably isn’t either of the two. But then again, I reminded myself, ours was not a pleasure trip. This was for the kids.
I unzipped the outer nylon shell and discovered within the sweet, furry nugget. The Microfiber was fuzzy and cozy — somewhere between teddy bear and pool table. I noticed no significant Microfiber compression, whatever such a thing may even look like. Equally pleased was I to find my penis wasn’t compressed either, but already stiffening in contemplation of the possibilities a giant triangle would afford us.
But it was premature. Being a man, I was ready to bend Raegan over the ramp and put her through the ringer, but as any good wife will remind you, when you buy sex furniture, first on the list of issues to address is that of where to put it. The ramp is so big it appeared we were going to have to rearrange some furniture. And as every man knows, there’s nothing that can kill a sexual feeling faster than the looming threat of interior decorating.
Our bedroom was not an option. There’s hardly room enough for the bed in there. The living room was a possibility, though our lack of window treatments would offer the neighbors an open view of the festivities. The basement had ample space and I liked the sort of dungeon feel it would lend to the occasion, but in the end we opted out. Mildew proved a turn-off, as was the thought of cracking our heads open on the concrete floor and the nightmare of having to explain everything to the paramedics.
I caught a glimpse of the Liberator literature and was relieved to discover the shapes are meant to be used on top of ones bed. Everything was clicking into place.
posted by the Brykmans at 5:37 PM
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