“Hey, baby, where’s that yoga-ball chair thingie of yours?” the Man I Married asked. “Ya still got it?”
Since the chair was in the closet beneath a pile of baskets and purses, I could hardly claim that I was using it so MIM couldn’t. I had frequent, good intentions of unearthing it. My excuse, and I’m sticking with it, is that it’s too low for my desk. Neither could I claim that he wouldn’t care for it properly, since I wasn’t doing that, either. So I let him dig it out and haul it happily off to the Barage. He promised to return it in mint condition.
Evidence mounted that he was not using the yoga-ball chair to strengthen his abs. Flour was the first clue—odd bits of flour paste smeared around the kitchen, not quite cleaned-up evidence. But clue about what, exactly? Believe me, I’ve learned not to ask, especially when it was apparent that he was going to great lengths to keep his project under wraps.
I ask you, if your husband had asked you innocuously enough about borrowing your yoga ball, would you have been prepared for this:
Sometimes I’m asked how I manage to survive without television. But with entertainment like this around my home, who needs it?
The Erotica Writer’s Husband & Other Stories by Jennifer D. Munro
Kindle Edition at Amazon
12.5 humorous stories about sex and the sexes. These sensual yet comic stories offer a fresh take on literary erotic fiction, as if Anaïs Nin and Erma Bombeck met at the library to spin tales of laughter and the libido. Collected from the pages of Best American Erotica, Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, Best of Literary Mama, Clean Sheets, Zyzzyva, and others.