Salon
I was scared when she first suggested it. But as we found out what we could handle, I saw how much trust we shared
I got up around seven on my wife’s birthday and made her breakfast, as usual. I do all of the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, buy groceries and run all errands, even for those embarrassing feminine hygiene products. My wife never asked me to shoulder all household chores; I insisted. The arrangement suited both of us perfectly. I always wanted someone to take care of, just as she always wanted someone to take care of her.
While we eat breakfast, it’s tradition that we watch “Law & Order: SVU” on Netflix. “Do you want to watch cop-who-rapes-his-wife or little-girl-in-a-coma?” I asked.
My wife chose “cop-who-rapes-his-wife,” while I, the sentimental one, opted for “little-girl-in-a-coma.” We broke this impasse the same way we make other minor decisions: With a wrestling match.
I know many couples enjoy a bedroom tussle, but when my wife and I grapple, we’re out for blood. We bite, scratch, punch and twist each other’s limbs into painful pretzels. I am proud to say I am married to a woman who can kick my ass. This is how we are in the bedroom, too, where it’s a constant shifting of dominance, rough and wild, neither of us on top for long.
My wife won, finishing me off with a move that would be illegal even in a street fight. I let her get her licks in while she could. Later that day, we were headed to the dungeon. There, I would show her no mercy.