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dearest husband

Dearest Husband,

I love you, more than I have ever loved another man… but if you grope my boobs one more time tonight, I’m going to give you that vasectomy you’ve supposedly been planning for the last 18months.

Here’s the thing, I’ve never really believed in the phrase “all touched out”, I mean, I’m a pretty tactile person – perhaps one of the reasons we’ve got three kids aged 5 and under. It’s something that I never felt with Reuben or Tobias. I suppose there was a degree of it with Tobias, but the simplest brush of your hand across my chest was not enough to make me want to punch you in the throat and bite your hand like a rabid dog.

This is how I feel now Edith is here.

I find that at the end of the day, when you “cop a feel” and I just want to slob out on the sofa in that oh-so-sexy way you like, usually wearing my sexy pjs (think less Victoria’s Secret and more Primark from 2002 and you’re on the mark) with dinner that I may or may not have spilled on my front, I just don’t want to respond the same as I used to. The feminist in me dies a slow death every time I consider chucking you a bone and getting it on Stevie Wonder style when I genuinely don’t want to, just to be left, untouched, for a few hours before bed. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting I haven’t loved having sex with you, far from it I adore sex with you and you still make my heart skip a beat when you smile at me in that way. Yet when I’m tired and I’m “touched out” just the very thought of more touching makes me feel the same way that you feel about Leeds Utd.

Back to that phrase again…

Imagine you’ve just finished putting dinner in the slow cooker, answered 18 emails, written two blog posts and attempted an instagram photo shoot that didn’t work, loaded the washing machine for the second time and put the laundry on the radiators and in the tumble dryer, all the while with a baby sat on your hips or lap , smacking your chest and shouting “pwwwwweeease” in your face, or just crying. In. Your. Face. She doesn’t need a boob feed, she’s had an bowl of cereal, a yoghurt (that you’re now wearing), half her sippy cup (the other half leaked out of the “non spill” lid onto the sofa) and a couple of pieces of chocolate to shut her up while you tried to do the bits you needed to do. Sofia the first failed to keep her interest and you are now her goal. Despite all this, boobie is her desire, and boobie is what she will get. Sometimes I get the chance to unhook my bra while little fingers are rammed in there, seeking and nipping, other times I have the delight of being a bystander while she grabs a fist full of boob, pulls it up by the skin and latches onto the top of the nipple in some rather painful, bizarre self service.

Do you know what it’s like to feel like a self service buffet? No, you don’t. References to lolly pops and your penis are not welcome at this point. No.

This boob invasion is pretty much every time I sit down. Every. Damn. Time. Sometimes while I stand.

All of this is made better by the fact that she has learnt to shout the phrase “Mine, boobie” a phrase I believe you taught her when you were playing and asking “Is that my boobie?” and tickling her. I feel like I should point out that it is actually MY boobie, contrary to popular belief.

I spend the day fending off her advances to the self service boobffet and then you come home and get all up in my space like a horny teen.

I love you, I love to have sex with you but right now, I’m all touched out.

Your wife. Xx

P.s – Actually call for your vasectomy, no waiting list is that long.

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