It was MJ’s birthday yesterday, so on Saturday night she took a well deserved night for herself.
She went out with two of her friends to this fantastic restaurant called the Brazilian Grill. They serve Churrasco a Rodizio which means Rotisserie Barbecue, and basically that translates into an endless supply of every kind of mouth-watering meat imaginable. Not to mention MJ and the girls also savor the Brazilian hunks of man meat serving them the food as well.
The plan was a good one because the restaurant is less than a half mile from the newspaper’s main office, and I work until 11 p.m. on Saturday nights. So we had our cousin babysit Will, and I told her to let loose and drink as much as she wants because I’d just meet her after my shift ended and be her designated driver.
You see, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Because if I was paying attention, I would’ve remembered there is nothing more dangerous and intimidating than being the stone cold sober husband walking into a group of girls who are loaded and have been sharing stories with each other for hours.
They weren’t quite done with their night when I met up with them at a local bar, so I volunteered to hang out until they wanted to go home. Big mistake. I knew I was in trouble right away because after I finished saying hello to everyone, they immediately went right back to the conversation that was in progress before my arrival. So for the next five minutes, I tried to contain my shock when they talked intimately about g-spots. Where they’re located, how guys have trouble finding them and a detailed recounting of their best g-spot related encounters.
But what was really shocking for me was listening to a conversation between MJ’s friends about how their husbands expected them to be home already. One was supposed to bring her husband dinner, but decided to stay out late with MJ instead. The other was in the same boat. Then, one of them said something I will never forget.
“Yeah, he’s pissed at me tonight. I’m gonna have to perform for him tonight to make up for it,” she said.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up the bus. I asked her if I heard her right and if she meant what I thought she meant by that. She nodded and said of course. That when she’s in hot water, she uses her sexual persuasions as currency. Her other friend concurred and said it’s common practice and the easiest way to get out of trouble immediately.
My head snapped around to MJ, who was giving the other two women the stink-eye and shouting “SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” with her eyes. Could this be true? Is it possible? Was I not aware of the unwritten rule that when the wife screws up, I’m supposed to reap the sexual benefits? I cocked my head to one side and raised an eyebrow, and gave MJ an inquisitive glance.
“Sssshhhhhh,” she told her friends. “He doesn’t know these things. Don’t put ideas in his head. Honey, forget you ever heard that.”
I was flabbergasted. Floored. Bamboozled even. All those times when MJ was legitimately in the dog house, it appears I was missing out on a husband’s God given right to make up lovin’! MJ told me to forget I ever heard the conversation, but that’s never gonna happen. This kind of life-altering accidental discovery is right up there with Scottish scientist Alexander Fleming, who accidentally discovered Penicillin because he was sloppy in his lab work and accidentally left a sample of Staphylococcus out in his work area. Asking me to forget that conversation is like telling the caveman who first saw fire to just put it out of his mind.
I feel like Jim Carrey in the movie “The Truman Show.” I’ve been kept in a protective bubble and only fed information others felt was necessary for me to have. I think I should be able to take this to a marital court of law and sue my wife. But instead of trying to get financial reparations, I’m seeking sexual backcharges. A judge or jury would sentence MJ to so many hours of sexual community service, only I’m the community.
As if MJ could sense every single thing I was thinking, she simply looked at me and said “Nope, don’t even think about it.”
The point is, nothing good comes out of being a guy and gaining a peek behind the curtain to see the great and powerful Oz. And on an unrelated note, it seems nothing positive comes out of being at a certain Hyannis bar around midnight on a Saturday night. A decent band was playing, but a 60-year-old woman who was flashing everyone in the bar tried to pull me out on the dance floor and would not let me go. Even when I was ridiculously insulting to her, she never relented. She asked why I wouldn’t dance with her and I told her I was far too sober for such an undertaking. Then she said it was for a bet, so I told her I’m a journalist and I’m not allowed to partake in illegal gambling, especially when the payoff is likely herpes. Eventually I simply hid behind MJ and shouted “HELP ME!”
So even though I’m not entitled to the same rights as other husbands out there, I want to say happy birthday to my lovely wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to Google “g-spot” to see what all this fuss is about.