This weekend I cut myself in a place where no women wants to cut herself. Ever. I cut myself in the worst possible place.
Yeah. Don't make me say it.
It hurt. A lot.
Here's the thing.
It's been a long time since I've written about sex here on the ol' blog of uncomfortableness because, well...
You have to be having sex to write about it. The new house hasn't exactly been christened, if you know what I mean.
So while I've been keeping things "clean" enough to not freak out children and small animals when I wear shorts, I haven't been keeping things up in a I-don't-want-him-to-have-to-pick-anything-out-of-his-teeth kind of way.
His teeth haven't been anywhere near there in a while.
But, we made a sex date (you do those things when you've been married 13 years) while he was in Reno last week and I wanted to, you know, make a good reimpression.
But then I gave myself an at-home clitorectomy and I haven't really been in the mood.
So if you're a fan of embarrassing sex stories about middle-aged straight people, you're going to have to wait for things to heal.
I wonder how long it takes for one of those to grow back.