And the Rocket's Red Glare......

(Note: This post contains real life and imagined sexually explicit information about middle-aged married people getting it on. If you are squeamish or inclined to think ewwwww!, then I suggest you move along. Oh, and if you happen to be a child of mine, please not that this is pure fantasy. Daddy and I only did it three times. We don't remember it and I would definitely not blog about it. There now. Mama loves you. Shall I call the therapist and make an appointment?)

He told her how he loved to watch her after she showered. He watched her rub the lotion into her skin. The motion was so sensual, the scent of cocoa butter in the air, he watched from the shower as she spread the lotion on her arms, across her breasts, over her rounded belly. It didn't matter how long he'd known her or how many times he'd seen her naked, he still got a thrill when she stretched her leg, with an utter lack of self-consciousness, up onto the vanity to rub the lotion into her calves. He could just glimpse the pink recess that still made him stiff.

That morning they were sharing that space as usual, but there was a distinct electricity between them. Their affair of so many years, a love life of stolen moments, snatched from the clutching grasp of the mundane - bills, jobs, children, pets, house. They had to find those moments when the obligations of daily life could be swept aside, leaving space in the mind for desire.

On that particular morning, luck was with them. Two of their three children were out of the house. The third was occupied in the Saturday morning ritual of cartoons and sugary cereal. Over the sounds of some science report on NPR, they bantered with each other until she shocked him by turning to him and kissing him hard. Before he could recover from it, she was on her knees in front of him.

Because she wasn't such a nubile young thing anymore and the tile bathroom floor was cold and hard, it didn't take long before she suggested that they move to the bed. Once there, they went through the motions of a couple who know well how to please one another. Although new sex is exciting in a breathtaking, heartracing sort of way, sex with someone you've been with for years can have the amazing ability of reminding you of the passion you once felt for your beloved.

Mmmmm. Ooooh. Yeahhhhh. Right there. Mmmmm. Like that.

And then - of course - there was a gentle rapping on the door. It was punctuated by a cat who only partially believed that one needed a thumb to turn a doorknob. He was anxiously rattling the knob while the child knocked. Such sweet teamwork. They weren't going to stop until they were acknowledged.

"Yes, we'll be out in a minute!" she called.

"But what are you doing?" came the little voice.

In unison: "We're getting ready to go!"

And then he added, "Now get away from the door and take the cat with you."

They could hear her harrumphing back down the stairs. She was ten, after all, and could figure out that they were up to no good in there and that it included nudity and private parts. Disgusting. The cat offered two more forlorn rattles of the knob and then gave up, as well.

Now this couple knows each other very well. Momentum had been lost. Could it be regained? During the break in the action, a part of her mind had noted that the bathroom radio was still playing NPR and a promo had just announced that Car Talk would be coming up next. Car Talk? No. That would not do. She could not see herself climaxing to Click and Clack, the Tappit Brothers. Not these days anyway.

"While you're up," she smiled at her husband as he came back from checking to make sure the bedroom door was locked, "could you turn on the t.v. and turn off the radio?"

He was happy to accommodate her. She watched him move around the room and smiled at how handsome he still was. He touched the power button on the television and Mussorgsky's Pictures at An Exhibition flooded the room. They'd fallen asleep to the satellite television music channel that played pops music and short orchestral pieces. He had a wicked habit of looking as though he were asleep and then announcing within just a few notes of a piece, the composer's name and the title of the piece. A son of a music director, he was raised with classical music in his house. She, on the other hand, had a mother who listened to the local AM station's Swap Shop in the evening and the obituaries in the morning. With considerable effort, she might be able to tell Dolly Parton from Loretta Lynn, but she didn't know Rimsky from Korsakov.

He moved back to the bed and hovered over here where she lay waiting. They kissed tenderly at first then letting it build into something deeper, harder, more urgent. These moments seemed so few and far between lately. After a long day of herding cats or wrangling teens, neither of them were terribly interested in sex. Okay - that's a lie. He was. She was. But it just seemed like too much work. It required too much intimacy, too much concentration. The brain - free of the stresses of the day - was an important component to good sex.

He slid down her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. She gasped quietly (little ears) as he reminded her of where they were before being so rudely interrupted by the child with the "OMG, my parents might be having sex!" radar.

She closed her eyes and let her mind focus on the delicious sensation. The room was quiet. She moved in time with him. Mmmmm. Yeahhhhh. Right there. She could feel herself being pulled toward the edge. Close now.

Her eyes snapped open. She lay there, trying not to listen, instead trying to refocus on what he was doing, on that feeling of build up that was just there - the beautiful explosion of light and color behind her closed eyes, the rush of the endorphins. It had just been in sight. She could feel herself moving toward toward it when.......when, the song changed and the beautiful, mournful Pictures at an Exhibition gave way to the patriotic strains of God Bless America.

She tried not to laugh. She tried again to refocus. She shifted slightly and he changed his pace. Mmmm. That was nice. Oh yes. There. She tried to tune out the rousing stanzas and banish the images of baseball stadiums, waving flags and 9/11 that went skittering across her mind's eye.

She was just getting her groove back when the room went quiet again. Ah, yes, now perhaps something more lovely, more sensuous or even something less bombastic would come on next. She had no more thought these thoughts and imagined finally getting there when, wouldn't you know it, the one song that she could actually name came floating over her soft moans.

She opened her eye to confirm her musical acumen. Indeed, she was correct. It was Dvorak's Humoresque. Also one of the tunes mangled on the violin by Jack Benny, a comedian who had given them many a shared laugh over the years. They loved his old radio and television shows.

Obviously, this orgasm was going to be more difficult than most. She briefly considered announcing her knowledge of the piece, but she knew that once they started laughing, that would kill the mood and the sound of laughter was almost as big a draw to the child as were the hushed rustlings behind the door. If she heard, she'd be back at the door demanding more explanations. Kids hate it when you laugh without them. They hate it more when you laugh without them and you refuse to explain what you're laughing about.

She closed her eyes once more and tried not to think of the phrase "Just close your eyes and think of England." Because that really wasn't the case. She wasn't enduring - she was enjoying. England need not get involved.

She stopped herself from giggling and figured that the third time was the charm. Focus, focus......