You’re less than average, honey. I married you because I love you, not because of your sexual abilities. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here in this bed beside me.

So why do you think I should waste my time letting you climb on top of me to hump away on me like a rabid monkey?

I would never leave you. I mean, you can’t help it. Like I said, I love you. I just find you–shall we say–a little less than exciting. Perhaps even a bit inadequate. I mean, after all, you don’t even really cum like a real man, do you now? More like a little spritz, an itty-bitty trickle of a little bit of nothing. I don’t even believe you’ve got enough sperm in those little peanuts of yours to get me pregnant. Not that we need worry about that, because, like I said, that little thingy is not getting wet tonight or any night.

Damn it! Stop looking so pathetic. The truth is best. Take it like a man, if you can work yourself up to that. And, besides, I know you visit those porn sites and play with tinkerbell the entire time. I’ve seen you, darling. Don’t deny it. Catherine and I caught you at it just last week. Remember Thursday night? When you heard us laughing in the kitchen and came running downstairs? Fumbling with your zipper?

Why are you blushing? See what I mean? Men don’t blush. Now, dear, put the little guy away. Go ahead. Tuck it back in your boxers. That’s a good boy. It’s so much better when you face facts, isn’t it?

And honey? Before you go to sleep, go downstairs and get me a glass of wine.