My husband just headed out the door to his hockey game. He currently has a seven-game scoring streak going.
I find that so fucking hot.
Of all the stereotypically hot things he does (like strip out of a flight suit and combat boots every night) there is just something about a good slap shot that gets me wet.
Oh, I should mention, before he left he asked me if I had blogged today. When I said no he responded, "Well, come on. You've got people waiting. Write something sexy."
First of all, who says, "sexy" in real life? Second of all, I've been called a lot of things. Like dirty, and slutty, and sexual, and kinky, and disgusting, and gross. But I have never been called sexy.
I was planning on writing about the beard I'm growing. Now that plan is shot to hell.
But hockey game night is usually sex night. Maybe I should go write something just for him. I have a bright future ahead of me writing letters to Penthouse.
"I never thought something like this would happen to me."
Update: Well, he scored tonight all right. His scoring streak is alive, but only on the ice, not in our bedroom.
Poor Tuna Man took a slap shot square in the nuts.
You're probably asking, "But, Tuna Girl, wasn't he wearing a cup?" And I asked the same thing. But apparently the boys hang low enough to get it from the rear.
Is it wrong that I can't stop giggling about this. I think it is adorable.
Poor, poor Tuna Man. He can't stop groaning.
So much for my Penthouse letter.