Tap here to turn on desktop notifications to get the news sent straight to you. Drastic, but not difficult. So last week I tried something new and, for me, a bit daunting. I stripped this year-old body of mine of everything but discreet lady foliage, high heels and a smile. The first thing I noticed was the draft up my bum and my breasts feeling a bit chafed. In fact, my breasts were really quite put out. I'd already extorted six months of breast-feeding from them back in so they stood there, tapping their stilettos, demanding to know why in God's name they had to go commando under a cooking apron.
I tried to explain to my mopey mammaries that to spice up my married sex life I'd decided to cook a Naked Lunch for my husband, Henry, and they should just be grateful the apron provided a modicum of support. I recognize a Naked Dinner might have been sexier candlelight as opposed to glaring natural light ferreting out each wrinkle and dimple , but Henry and I have come to the conclusion that quality sex is not going to happen when our kids are in the house.
Especially since our eldest purchased a Harry Potter Extendable Ear on her trip to the amusement park last spring. So thanks to summer day camp, Naked Dinner became Naked Lunch. And no, William S. Burroughs was not invited. If you cook your Naked Lunch in 4-inch heels, make sure you don't trip over your porcine cat Marilyn Monroe -- who manages to find the most trafficked avenues in your home to lie down and lick herself in questionable places -- because you might fall against the stove and sear your elbow.
My chicken was browning nicely. My baby potatoes were crispy on the outside and mashable on the inside. And my asparagus spears glistened with olive oil in all their phallic glory when Henry appeared, poking his head into the kitchen. He blinked for a beat, taking in the apron, heels and naked limbs; then realization dawned.
I thought our Naked Lunch would be a bit more prolonged. I'd finish the cooking, plate the delicacies, serve him at the Martha Stewart-curated table, then hand-feed him lunch, bite by bite. Who knows, perhaps I would have even finished cleaning the kitchen wearing nothing but the heels now, bending over, scrubbing and such.
None of that happened. When the last article of Henry's clothing hit the floor, I was pulled by the wrist he can no longer carry me to the bedroom. Henry was surprised and pleased by my Naked Lunch and things got heated. As a woman I could've used just a little more psychological foreplay. Also, I forgot that I was toasting sourdough bread in our toaster oven and the kitchen almost burned down. Marilyn Monroe suffered a bit from smoke inhalation, which she'll never let me forget.
But other than that, I'd give the Naked Lunch an 8 out of Novelty and Effort keep Married Sex and Love alive. Because we're worth it!