“No, your womb. The place where you gave life to your two children,” Dr. Madison explains.
“Uh, can I do that here? Shouldn’t that be done in a real doctor’s office with a table and stirrups? I don’t think I can reach it otherwise. Unless you have a mirror and maybe a flashlight.”
“If I can reach your G-spot in the middle of the woods with a tube of watermelon Bonne Belle Chap Stick while it’s raining and there is a homeless guy in a tent four feet away singing the Sesame Street theme song, then you can hug your womb,” I tell her encouragingly.
I probably shouldn’t have brought that up because now I’m distracted and can only think about the one time we went camping and got lost in the woods.
And now I have a hard on.
“Actually, I don’t mean you actually need to…um, reach up and touch your literal womb,” Dr. Madison explains.
“Why is she talking about littering? Is she saying my womb is dirty?” Jenny whispers to me.
“What I need you to do, Jenny, is just cradle your arms around your lower stomach area. Hold your womb in your arms and give it comfort. Let it know you care.”
Okay, now this chick is talking crazy.
“And while you’re at it, try soothing your ovaries and give them some encouragement to open themselves back up and accept the love that is given. I believe the problem here is that your womanhood has closed itself off and no longer recognizes love.”
Bat shit crazy. Talking to my penis and Jenny’s vagina is normal. This is one step away from taking all of our clothes off and dancing and chanting around a sacrificed pig.
My awesome wife does as she’s told though and wraps her arms around her waist. She gently rocks from side to side and begins talking to her “womanhood” like it’s Billy.
“Such good little ovaries. Yes you are!”
I want off this crazy train. Right the fuck now!
Watching my wife rock-a-bye her ovaries makes me wonder what she initially thought we would get out of this counseling session. I had thought it would be a bunch of arguing and pointing fingers about whose fault it is that we aren’t having sex anymore. Maybe she doesn’t think that’s the problem. Shit, maybe that isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s just my problem. She’s not faking a work injury, she’s not cheating on me…what the hell else could it be? A few years ago she cut me off from sex for a week because I gave her a Dutch Oven in bed one night. While hilarious, it’s never a good idea when your wife is naked and getting ready to mount you.
There had been another time when I gave her a Wet Willy when she started coming. I hadn't meant for that to be hilarious. I read about it in Cosmo. When she had locked me out of the bedroom, I grabbed the magazine and realized two of the pages were stuck together - sex tips and practical jokes. Well played, Cosmo. Well played.
We leave the cuckoo doctor’s office with a promise to keep communicating with our reproductive organs. Unfortunately, I still have no fucking clue how that’s supposed to help get me laid.
Chapter 12 – Baby Bullets
Since cuddling our reproductive organs has done nothing to boost our sex life, there’s not much else for me to do except think back to a time when we were having sex. Man, those were the days. We had A LOT of sex. Like, a lot. Pretty sure it was impossible to even count that high. And fuck, was it good sex. Even when we were trying to get pregnant with Veronica it was good sex. You would think that since we pretty much used to have sex every single day, it would have been easy for us to get pregnant. I had always thought that shoving as much sperm up there as you could guaranteed you a baby.
I mean, it makes sense right? If you’ve got this little egg, and you just throw a handful of sperm at it, what are the chances that one will get through? But if you pour gallons and gallons of sperm all over it, that’s got to up your chances, right?
False! Those little white-tailed squirmy devils have serious attitude. It’s like they think they’re too good to fertilize an egg. Little bastards. You’ve got to trick them into submission. A sneak attack when they’re least expecting it.
“What, you say he’s going to put us through the tunnel while he’s on a Tilt-a-Whirl? Impossible!”
“I do declare he just shot us out of his cannon in a golf cart on the highway. Preposterous!”
You see? Listen to those stuck-up fuckers. They even talk like assholes.