For those of you that are a tad prudish or have more pride then I, divert your eyes. Close the page and walk away for what you will encounter in this post may cause you to be a little uncomfortable.

Despite what you may have read in the past. I have never divulged in the world of BOB’s (Battery Operated Boyfriends). There’s no explanation for it really, it’s just not something that I’ve ever become interested in. I don’t find it dirty or weird at all, and I’ve been known to venture into store carrying such paraphernalia, even purchasing something, just never something for me.

(I pray no one in my family is reading this. *waves* You’ve been warned. Heed the warning. Respect the warning.)

My sex life has always been very healthy. I haven’t had a lot of partners, just ones that were as active as I, so lack of the sex (good sex) was never really a concern.

Until now.

Sure Mike is as horny as ever, but it seems to always be about him and his needs. Never mine. Getting to the goal is the main priority, nothing else. Lately it seems every encounter ends with him completely satisfied. And myself? Far. less. Which, in turn, has decreased my need for it entirely since I already know the outcome; plus I’m just about as satisfied sitting here at the computer, blogging. So horrible, I know. Don’t judge.

Lately my thoughts have wondered to exploring the world of self-gratification. As odd as it sounds, I am not sure where to start, or how to start.

(That sounds even stupider written down then it does in my head.)

My self unconsciousness makes it harder for me to contemplate it because what if I get caught? Mike is not one for self gratification either, (weird, I know, I’ve asked about it a lot and it’s just not something that he does either) and what if he caught me? Would he be upset that I was finding time to please myself while I constantly turn him down (since he needs it all. the. time.)?
It’s not like privacy in our house is abundant either. I can’t even have a moment in the washroom without someone barging in, be it Mike, Carter, the dog or the cat. I can just imagine being in the shower, pleasuring myself and Carter swings open the shower curtain (like he always does): Hi Mama!
I would be scarred for life, he’s too young to remember, but I would.

(You’re probably thinking: Just lock the damn door, idiot. But that’s not so easy either since we never close doors, let alone lock doors. Mike would know something was up for sure.)

See, these are the fucked up things I consume myself with. Who cares really? Buy the damn thing and ask him to join in. That’s what you’re thinking, right? Well, knowing Mike he’d bitch about his arm getting tired or it’s too much work. So I’d be right back here, where I am now, wondering what the hell I should do, for me.

I can just picture it. I go shopping for BOB, bring him home, whipping it out of the bag and saying: Honey look what I got today, it was on sale! As it jiggles back and forth in my hand, while Carter starts a screaming tantrum because I won’t let him hold it.

(Can you believe that I just wrote this whole post sitting in my office?)

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