“Dessert or sex?” my husband asks, as we devour our last few bites of overpriced pasta.
I take a sip of Riesling and ponder his question.
My mind flashes back to the last time we engorged ourselves at a restaurant. We spent hours eating crustaceans, then split a mountainous serving of chocolate lava cake, sprinkled with spices. We wobbled out of the restaurant and back home, where we immediately ran to separate bathrooms. I cannot attest to my husband’s experience, but I assume it was similar to my own, which can only be described as a deep bowel detox.
About twenty minutes later, we both emerged from our rank restrooms and headed upstairs to the bedroom. I shot my husband a come-hither look, and our lips met with passionate, yet familiar, comfort. The taste of beer and Old Bay seasoning danced between our mouths. Our tongues thrust against each other like two teenagers in the back of an old station wagon.
In the midst of our hot make-out session, I felt my husband twitch and suddenly turn away. But it was too late. The burp he’d attempted to hold back landed in my mouth like an atomic bomb. The flavor of spicy chocolate mixed with stomach acid invaded my sinuses.
After a few moments of composing myself and listening to my husband apologize, I assured him that we could continue our activities after we each took some antacid. A cup of water and a tablespoon of Pepto later, we were back in the bedroom.
Hands caressing over clothing, and some playful hair-pulling, ensured that our moment had returned.
“Turn around so I can unzip your dress,” my husband murmured.
I obliged by turning around and delicately lifting up my hair so he could grab the zipper. He brought it down slowly, exposing my upper back, but as the fabric on my dress became tighter near my waist, the zipper came to a stop. I was so bloated from dinner and dessert that I’d ended up getting stuck in my own dress. I pleaded for my husband’s help.
He turned on the light and inspected the situation like a surgeon. “Suck in your breath!” he exclaimed.
I held my breath and sucked in my stomach, pretending that I hadn’t just eaten enough food to feed a small third-world country. Finally, the zipper wiggled the rest of the way down, and my gut was freed from its constricting prison.
Next, it was my turn to undress my husband. I grasped for the button on his khakis only to discover they were already unbuttoned. My other half then explained that his pants had been unbuttoned for quite some time, so that he could breathe.
A few moments later we were in our marital bed doing what married folks do. The passion was there but the speed was . . . slow. And I don’t mean slow like a sexy R&B song. I mean slow like two sloths clumsily mating on a thin tree branch. At one point we almost fell off our branch as we attempted to roll over without putting pressure on our distended stomachs. We decided to take a momentary recess, fell asleep, and awoke the next morning.
Now, here we are again, acknowledging that ordering dessert may push us over the edge, to the point of not being able to control our bodily functions. With our aging bodies, our decision comes down to either sweet lovin’ or sweet treats. Like oil and water, the two do not mix.
The waiter brings us each a dessert menu. We look down at the delicious options, then back up at one another. Our eyes meet and we smile.
“Ummmm, dessert. We can always have sex tomorrow . . . ” I say.
My husband nods his head, and replies: “Agreed.”
This original piece by Jamie Alvarenga was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Image © Meggan via depositphotos.com.