by Ellen Jacobs
(05/22/02)
"I'm going to go and lie down and take a nap. Will you please make sure the kids stay upstairs?" I asked my husband as he was sitting and watching a game on the television.
"Sure," he replied.
We had just moved into our home, a split-level four-bedroom at the lake. It was in a rural area, so cable television was not yet available to us -- we just had an antenna with local stations. My husband was a sports junkie and had to have his Saturday afternoon sports marathon, and since that was the only television in the house, I had to find something to entertain myself with. My preference was to masturbate and then take a nap. He would keep the children upstairs so as not to disturb my slumber. This was a typical occurrence every weekend.
I proceeded downstairs to our bedroom. I crawled under the covers and got out the hand massager that my husband and I used as a "marital aid" to help my orgasms. This was a clunky, noisy thing, but I went ahead anyway with my self-gratification.
I was really getting into it, and was almost to my climax when my husband walked into the bedroom. I fumbled around for the off switch and couldn't find it! There I was with this noisy hummer under the covers that I couldn't turn off and my husband standing at the door grinning like a fool.
Finally I found the switch and turned the damned thing off. My husband, amid chuckles, told me I had a phone call. I hadn't heard the phone ring.
I answered my phone call and went upstairs to face the music. I asked my husband if he was upset that I was masturbating.
With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes he said, "No. I'm not upset. I know every time that you do it because it affects the TV reception."
There is a lot to be said for your hand.
