"Dear Manola 180,
Thank you so much for helping me get through that rough patch. I miss my lover terribly, but I have given up the affair, knowing in my heart that in spite of everything, I love my husband. We have children and I'm not willing to give up an entire life just because I am a hot mama who attracts sex like bees to honey.
But Manola, here's a question even my therapist can't answer. Now that my husband has regained my trust in the sack, and in spite of the fact that we've been having sex for donkey's ages, I am still completely befuddled. Why must he 'drain the pipes' in the morning and why does he get all enthusiastic about dickrise?
My husband is 41 years old and EVERY MORNING he looks at his stiffy like it's the first time he's ever been hard. His eyes light up. He points at it and says "Look! Look!" Kid at the candy store kind of thing.
Bless the man, most mornings we only have about five minutes to consummate the act, and he's all worried about making me come. I told him to not worry about ME as this was all about HIM and my orgasm is way too time-consuming. Truth is, all I can think about when I wake up is that first cup of coffee and what I'm going to make the kids for lunch."
Mrs. LL COOL BABE"
Dear Mrs. LL COOL BABE,
You ever heard of a rubber husband?
OK, here's the deal. Just now, me being on a low-carburator diet and trying to spice up my otherwise high-protein meals, struggling to open a jar of hot banana peppers, and because aint no man around here to drain pipes, open jars and perform other various and sundry matrimonial duties, I nearly gave myself a case of arthritis trying to open that damn jar. In fact, I think I might've broken a few knuckles.
In my book, being the receptacle of AM pipe drainage is well worth the sacrifice, provided that your matitunal barbarian loves, adores and cherishes you 24/7.
Now, let's examine the matter, shall we? First of all, being married means having to compromise and put up with shit, including sperm. Talk to some mad scientist who claims there are biological reasons for wet dreams and random penis uprisings, but the bottom line is this: that thing is going to invade your vagina even when you are closed for business. That thing, which you usually refer to as 'husband,' will come knockin' at your door even when unwelcome. Remember, you fell in love with that thing. You claimed 'until death do us part,' and crap, if a penis is persistent enough, it will find a way to fuck you even in the after-life!
(Case in point, remember your mom telling us that she was so tired of having sex with her aging husband. It used to take ten minutes. Now it takes twenty minutes. OY! SUCH PATIENCE TO BE A WOMAN, I'M TELLING YOU!)
Another case in point, my ex, Mr. Thinks He's Huge -- who is quickly developing the reputation for being the world's most impressive asshole -- used to shove my face into his dick every morning, expecting a blow-and-go. Mind you, who needs an alarm clock when you can be dick-slapped? Ugh. So fucking rude! Talk about bad bed manners! Talk about lack of pleasure for Manola! No, forget that. Talk about the total turn-off! Wait. Is it possible to have a non-orgasm? Is it possible to have non-foreplay? Like, can you get not-wet? Yes, yes, yes.
So, kindly tell your therapist, that according to Manola, the blow-and-go, dickrise and slap wake-up call process is only valid if the man benefiting from skillful and pleasurable fellatio is also performing the two most important matrimonial duties round the clock: unconditional love and leaving the toilet seat down.
Mrs. LL COOL BABE, seems like your husband, RISES to the occasion. All day and night, he's considerate of you, your body and your wifely pleasure. Heck, the guy loves ya. I strongly suggest, that after twenty years of marriage, you learn how to be in a coma while he drains his pipes. Sleep through it and dream of the scent of roasted java and freshly-baked doughnuts as you flit about in your hair rollers, anti-wrinkle masque and Wal-Mart lingerie through a field of blooming daisies. Next thing you know, reality kicks in ... kids screaming, getting ready for school, going to work ... and boy, oh boy, that much-awaited long-distance phone call to Manola on Friday afternoons.
Now THAT is a pleasure you DON'T want to miss!