“Did you buy a tripod?” I asked my husband after I discovered the digital camera pointing at our bed.
“No, we had that,” T. assured me. He was naked. When I agreed to this assignment—primarily because my husband’s birthday was coming up and this would be the awesomest gift ever—I hadn’t envisioned “tripod.” I hadn’t envisioned much, really. Aside from nervousness. I am not a sex tape person. I am 42. A mother of three. An alto in my church choir. (We’re Unitarians. But still.) I could hardly find time on my to-do list for “sex,” much less “tape.” Of course, from the second he heard about it, T. had thought about nothing else. (I’m pretty sure he wrote a script.)
“What is this music?” I asked, pointing at his iPod.
“Yoga tunes.” “Seriously? I can’t do this”—I paused for too long—“to yoga music.”
He began scrolling frantically: “Mumford and Sons?”
“Um, no,” I protested as I dimmed the lights to a level I like to call “off.” Then, in what seemed like one fluid movement, filled with the grace and speed of a man who was nowayinhell going to miss this chance to make a sex tape with his wife, T. switched to Led Zeppelin II, turned up the lights, hit the play button on the camera and lifted me onto the bed, all serious and dirty talking and bow chicka bow bow.
After an attack of the giggles, I closed my eyes and started to think that maybe this wasn’t so bad. That maybe this might be, kind of, sexy. When I opened my eyes, though, there was something more pressing to consider.
“Hon?” I said. He pretended not to hear me.
“Hon?” I said again. “Is your . . . nose . . . bleeding?”
Aaaaaand . . . cut!
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