My wife and I maintain vastly different views on privacy in a marriage. I believe in preserving a degree of mystery, no matter how many years we’re wed. In contrast, Sophia subscribes to the motto: “That’s nothing either of us hasn’t seen before.”
Consistent with my stance, I always close the door to the bathroom when using the facilities. When appropriate, I also switch on the ceiling fan. I expect Sophia to do the same, since there are certain sights and sounds I really don’t need to experience. Equally, except in the pursuit of matters sexual, I have no interest in either of us undertaking a close inspection of the other’s nether regions.
Sophia owns a much different take on these issues. To my continuing dismay, she seems to think my wedding vows included an implicit promise to act as her surrogate gynecologist in addition to my more traditional husbandly duties. I’m as happy as the next guy to hear his wife say: “Come look at my vagina.” However, I’m considerably less overjoyed when the request tacks on an addendum such as: “Tell me if this looks like mucous”; or “do you think this smells like a yeast infection?”
One area where the two of us have repeatedly butted heads concerns Sophia’s periodic supplications to hold my pecker while I pee. Even Little Richard, normally a “hands on” kinda guy in the realm of female attention, objects to this particular interaction. I can’t begin to fathom her peculiar desire. In my opinion, unless she’s contemplating a sex change operation and wants to get a feel for the new plumbing, she has no need to direct my personal fire hose.
Last night I finally gave in to Sophia’s entreaties, but only to put an end to her complaints about my occasional “misses.” Any guy’ll tell you that urinating from a standing position isn’t always an exact science. Sometimes, the stream will spray a bit. And name one gent who hasn’t occasionally forgotten to raise the toilet seat before peeing. Sure, nobody wants to unwittingly sit in a wet spot during a late night bathroom break, but there’s no need to endlessly bitch and moan when such an understandable accident occurs.
Safe to say, Sophia now realizes hitting the bowl isn’t as easy at it looks. During last night’s experiment, she managed to anoint everything in the room but the bowl. She spent a good hour afterwards scrubbing the toilet tank and floor. And the jar of potpourri atop the tank, and the wicker basket beside it containing home and garden magazines and Sophia’s other bathroom literature, went straight into the trash.
The good news is, Sophia has now assured me of my future privacy when attending nature’s call.