I Had Very Nice Sex With

M. and I smack it without even waking up. It goes off again at 5:23, and I grudgingly roll myself out of bed. You’re up already, the early bird, brushing your teeth at the sink as I stagger, squinting, into the bathroom. Dodging your hand that shoots out to grab my ass (it’s way too early for that), I turn on the shower. I need hot water. Really, really hot. I brush my teeth and wash my face as I wait for the water to reach the correct temperature. You keep stealing glances at me in the mirror, staring at my tits as they strain against the sheer fabric of my tank top. I know you want some sign from me that you can make another move, but I’m so tired I’m barely functional, and I just can’t go there right now. I open the shower door just a crack and test the water. The steam rolls out of the stall, creeping over the mirror with smoky tentacles. That’s what I need. I strip off my tank and panties and step in to the shower. Just as I’m leaning my head back and soaking my hair it occurs to. If I had, then what came next would never have happened, or at least wouldn't have been as bad. But somehow, I got it into my head that if my husband were willing to undergo even such minor surgery, then that must mean that down deep he was really a woman, a transsexual. So, that meant that I started pushing him to go to a doctor, which led to the psychiatrist visit, which led to everything I told you about earlier. Anyway, after I poked him, Piotr said, "My breasts are nobody's business but yours and mine, but if we had told him, then he probably would've just told me that I was indulging my fetish too much. Honey, I am not a girl." I publicly agreed with him, but then thought about how I could get him to admit he was a girl. I figured he was just too afraid to admit it and had managed to con the psychiatrist into believing him. I really thought I was doing what was right, what was best for him. Okay, after a night of fabulous sex (as usual) and a day of same-old same-old, we had.
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