Oh but aren't these the busy fizzy days. No time for nothing! Rush, rush, rush, do this, do that. Lord it makes me dizzy just in the telling.

So here it is, Saturday afternoon, the wife's in the bedroom reading the little guy a story. I have a bit of religion on my brain. I'm praying like a crazy man let's all nap now, please! Oh, but I fully expect to break with the faith yet again within the hour. I'm a pragmatic guy. If miracles don't happen, forget it!

If nothing else, I say to myself, here's that chance for the shower you've been pining for since yesterday morning. I know, I know, it's a scary sort of life. I'm not thinking of a quick wash with soap and cloth, I'm dreaming of water so scalding it takes that dirty layer of outer skin right off. Strips me clean like a solvent. Turn my hair into an exotic flower. Scrape that scratchy rash of beard from my cheeks.

Under the pounding water I am luxuriating. And what is this? I wonder. Sheer sensual pleasure? What a rarity in my life. And what other pleasures of the flesh might be forthcoming?

Please take a nap, please take a nap, please take a nap. I've got that mantra thing going just in case the Judeo-Christian dude falls through.

What, you may be asking, are you talking about?

Let me tell you.

There's the problem of moving to the city. Urban areas as the suns in our country's galaxy. What a lot of rot! They're fucking black holes, I tell you! They suck things in, including suckers such as us. Matter compacts. Apartments grow tiny. Sure, eventually you adjust, because you too start to shrink. But the first couple years are a pain, literally so. You're forever banging your elbows against the walls. Barking your head on the tops of the doorways.

Add to that a cash flow like a sluggish stream, choked with sludge and silt, going in no discernible direction except perhaps directly downward. Home where the heart resides and all that. But it's damn near an homage to the former Soviet style of living. Almost but not quite. Not quite but close enough! At least there's no granny parked in a cot in the kitchen. Keeps me from charging down the streets in open revolt.

So you wonder now, good lord, you live in a one bedroom dump, with just the one room that has a door that closes. Why does the kid sleep in there? Why do you and the lovely have the bed set up in the dining nook?

Isn't it obvious? Mornings too rushed, evenings too exhausted, if you catch my drift. Sex is like payday: comes once a week if you're lucky, every other if you've got the wrong boss. Sure, there's that flush hour of exchange, greedy with delight, even better than a leisurely lunch. You cash that check, but by midweek it really wouldn't quite make up for all the tippy-toeing around if the wee one wasn't safely stashed away down the hall behind the door.

So here's the raw rub. We're at the age where the nap isn't so critical. The kid takes after the old man-- savors his sleep. But there's a bit of the mother in him--gets too excited to fall asleep. During the week, Dad says time to hop in bed, it's habit. Dad's such a boring old putz anyway, might as well have a snooze. Besides, if Dad doesn't get his little laydown, what a cranky bastard he becomes! But come the weekend-- Mommy's home! Here's a kid who turns backflips at the mention of Hump Day. No, not that one! I mean a.k.a. Wednesday.

I'm all dried off, cheeks soft as cunt. Ahh sweet Jesus! please! don't even think the word! I feel like I'm trying to dock at Lakehurst, New Jersey. My pecker's picked up the rallying cry, Remember the Hindenburg! Oh quiet down, will you.

I sneak into the livingroom the all-natural man. Dresser's in there. Clean tee, pulling on my underwear when my wife pokes her head around from the hall. "What do you think you're doing!" she hisses, "Don't get dressed, get in bed!"

Yes ma'am! Never one to refuse such an order. Now, sounds like the very happy ending, doesn't it. Don't bet on it! We can just be snuggling in when he pops his head around to corner to announce he's not sleepy. Then don't go to sleep, just stay the fuck in bed! Your bed!

She comes out of the bathroom shedding clothes like a duck does rain. Oh my goodness! Just look at all that! Is all of that for me? I'm already lurching before she gets under the sheets.

We're like that little electric cartoon guy. Little bolts of lightning are shooting from our fingertips. Ooh, where have you been hiding those lips? Mr. Tongue, meet Ms. Tongue. How about a nice warm greeting? Mmm, yes indeed.

Of course the whole while the precocious little one is in his room singing arias and reciting Proust. Hey, we're taking precautions in here! You needn't waste your talents. Sibling rivalry is about the last of your worries.

Okay, so there's some music, a little chatter going on. Pretend it's some radio going on in the background. Not exactly the stuff of great mood-setting proportions, but fuck that! Well, not exactly. Fuck something else. No mood needs to be set.

Oh my goodness but isn't she the hot one today. Skipping straight to the main course. Fine with me! The crudités can keep in the fridge. She doesn't even give me the chance to feel how wet she is. Not with my fingers anyway! She's ripe as brie, but thrice as runny. Just rolls me right over on top of her, settling me nicely between those widened thighs. Doing a bit of gardening, are we? Plunging the old trowel right down in the furrow. Nice warm moist fertile mother earth! No need to knock, the door's wide open. The door's been yanked from the hinges and tossed out on the front lawn.

We settle on in. It's the same old in-and-out, but gone fucking exponential! Her legs wave all around like she's running a race. Which, I suppose, she is. Trying to gather up all the angles of good feelings all at once. Greedy for it, aren't we? And why not? I'm flipping through my book of tricks and in the end, my god! there's a whole section of addenda I'd never noticed before.