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Sunday night shall be the night.

We shall meet in the bedroom, at 8:00 PM on the dot.

We shall, silently or with no more tham perfunctory communication, disrobe and slip into bed, each from our own side, to meet in the middle and engage in sexual intercourse in the missionary position (man on top, naturally), in the near dark, until one of us achieves a solitary orgasm, declares victory, and rolls over.

We shall then promptly sleep.

This boring and unimaginative sexual encounter is a vital component to the success of our relationship. For it provides a very necessary break from the crazy kinky adventures we engage in on the other six nights.

Like last Thursday, when you whipped off your trenchcoat to reveal black latex and red leather, and stung me with a riding crop until I submitted and fulfilled your desires for hours and hours.
Or Tuesday when we snuck into the cemetery and climbed a tree, precariously tilting the motions of our coupling amongst its branches. And Monday afternoon -- where in your skimpy outfit did you conceal those toys which went so well hidden until we were in the department store changing room?
Or, yes, oh yes, early Saturday night in the bathroom stall of that seedy bar; and later that same night, with the sexy peach with the drunken drawl we met there, who you convinced to come home and join us in our fun.
And then there was the kitchen table with the whipped cream and cherries and caramel syrup; three in the morning while alternately swinging from the swing and hanging from the jungle gym on the corner playground; the delightful surprise while we drove down the Pacific Highway; the pommel horse; the basement of the public library.
Coming home to find you'd installed a jungle gym and swing in the living room; just after midnight on the roof; just before dawn in the vinyard.
Into every life a little rain must fall, and one night of boring, unimaginative, quiet certainty suffices to calm the tribulations of spontaneity, almost insanity, which consume the remainder of our week.

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