barely moving vivacious 50-something empty-nester, something I think about more often than when my nest was full, is engaging in some steamy chickiti-chickiti. Yes, by chickiti-chickiti, I mean well… you know (I’m Catholic and family members read my posts so don’t make me say it!)
Going down the list of all the ingredients needed for an ideal chickiti-chickiti recipe at this stage in our lives, I checked our pantry to see what Mr. B and I had:
4 c. of desire = CHECK!
2 heaping Tb. spoons of sexiness = shit, we only have 1/2 ounce left
2 fit bodies = the expiration date says 1/31/87
3 gallons of wine = CHECK!
A minimum of 1 slinky lingerie = do Cuddl Duds count?
1 unlimited prescription of small blue pills = I’m not telling…
A huge amount of privacy = CHECK!
So, on a recent business trip where I accompanied Mr. B, we were feeling even more adventurous than usual. Our hotel had an abundance of floors, making the elevator ride…slower and longer.
It was late at night.
mega alcohol in our systems.
We were alone in the elevator.
The desire was palpable.
Excitement took over us as he leaned in for a passionate kiss while his hands explored my
not so sexy body. What a rush…
That’s when it happened.
My ears popped.
Not only did they pop, but they hurt!
Can you say, MOOD KILLER!!!?
I begged Mr. B to stop at once.
He asked me what was wrong, but I could not hear out of either ear.
The elevator doors opened to our floor.