Mind If I Play Through? Golf, Sex And The Art Of Multitasking

Let me give you a little situation that occurs frequently at our house:

It’s 8:00 and my oldest daughter is finally put to bed, and hopefully the baby is almost done sucking on my boobs and is also on her way to Bedfordshire. By this time on a typical day, I’ve gotten out of bed at 6am (after waking up at least once during the night to feed our newborn baby) to do an hour of either power yoga or some sort of serious, not for pussies cardio workout, or I’ve bench pressed my sofa–it depends on my mood that day.  I’ve showered, dressed, made breakfasts, packed lunches for my daughter and myself, gone to work, blogged worked, come home, done laundry, dishes, floors, baths for both kids, prepared dinner, drank a bottle modest glass of wine, cleaned up after dinner, and gotten myself ready for bed which takes like, eleventy million hours because my skin care regimen is off the chain.

And then I collapse into my wonderful bed, dirty and exhausted as a crack whore coming off a bender.

My husband, on the other hand, has come home from work after a grueling day downloading porn, obsessing over photography message boards, having lunch out with the guys, and putting whoopee cushions on his co-worker’s chairs.

And guess what he wants?

And I know what he wants because he’s breathing.

And I’m thinking “NO. Everything nooooooooo.”

I want to be touched about as much as I want to run naked down my street banging a metal bucket over my head with a wooden spoon.

Actually, I’d prefer that to doing Sexy Time after having someone or something (breast pump at work) suck on my boobs every few hours all day long. The last thing I want is to have somebody else sucking on them.  Or touching them.  Or thinking about them.

You can see how that would get to be a little much, can’t you?

So, I have only two options here.

I can tell him to go spank his monkey in the basement like a troll next to the oil burner and have him act like a total dickhead until I finally give it up,

OR

I can allow him to Play Through.

A Play Through, my new friends, is a very, very valuable marital tool and it was introduced to me by my friend Lynne, whose husband came up with the phrase to describe a little dealy-o they worked out between the two of them. I’m sure they’ll both be thrilled that I’m outing them right now, but I outed them on my blog years ago for the same thing and at least Lynne is still talking to me. I’ve never met her husband, so fuck what he thinks.

And so now the student will become the teacher and I will impart their wisdom on all my new Toy With Me friends because I like you and is that a new perfume? You smell pretty like flowers or bathroom freshener or scented butt lube.

Not that I know ANYTHING about what butt lube smells like.

Does it even come in different scents? I have no idea.

My virgin ass.

Ahem.

About.com defines a Play Through thusly for those of you Toy With Mes who don’t golf.

“When a faster group of players is allowed to pass a slower group on the course. This usually happens at the invitation of the slower group – etiquette dictates that a slower group allow a faster group to play through.”

See, students? This isn’t just a golf term, it’s a concept! In the boudoir we also have lots of balls and clubs and people just hanging around waiting for something to happen:

The exhausted wife “slower group” sort of just lays there watching Ghost Whisperer “stands aside” while the “faster group” husband “completes the hole” gets his way without bothering anyone. Following the play through, Johnny Fucksalot “the faster group” is to keep quiet while the exhausted wife “slower group” goes to sleep “resumes play.“

RIGHT?

Huh?

You’re bummed you’ve been fighting about sex all this time and you never even thought there could ever be a win/win situation in this debate, but now there is and you lllooooovvveee me for telling you about it.

You’re welcome, people.

This is what I do.  I change lives.  I help people.

I’m a giver.

Clearly.

Now you can do stuff like plan your groceries, paint your nails (although I don’t recommend it because there is the thrusting to consider–it could get messy), read a book, watch TV (but you have to do it on your side because the up and down of his bum is really annoying and you wind up only seeing 50% of the program) or sleep! all while your husband is getting his naughties out.

It’s a beautiful thing–multitasking at its sexiest–and I highly encourage you to try it.

Of course we don’t have Play Throughs all the time. They only happen sometimes. Or at least I think they only happen sometimes. My husband might have different information on that though.

I’m usually either sleeping or passed out drunk watching Ghost Whisperer.

About the Author

Crissy,a lifelong Rhode Islander, is 35 and has two little girls. Aside from doing a little bit of writing here and there, she doesn’t use a shred of her MA in English. She writes a blog where she is Queen of *&%$#@* Everything and reigns over her readers, whom she calls Queefs, with a loving but firm hand. In both 2008 and 2009 Crissy won the Blogger’s Choice Award for Hottest Mommy Blogger. In 2010, Crissy was chosen as one of Blogher's voices of the year.