The Night Hubby Got Me Way Too Hot

Chicago is freezing and I just received a robocall from school announcing that classes tomorrow are cancelled, again. This means that tomorrow will be Day #19 of me not having my routine, the one that allows me to actually get stuff done. Hubby is still going to work, albeit bundled up. To show me that his life is hard and I am not the only one who is suffering, he sent me this photo. I’m still not quite convinced it’s him.

hubby cold

In the last week, I have to admit, I’ve been a little angry at hubby. And I’ve been a little mean, even though it’s not his fault that whenever our kid is sick or school is cancelled, I’m the one expected to give up everything to care for her. It’s not his fault that he gets to go on with his life, advance professionally and have adult conversations that take place outside our home, while I drop everything because obviously his career is more important than mine.

But I’m not bitter. Because, you see, hubby does a lot for our family. He likes to take care of the bills. He fixes stuff around the house, or at least calls someone to fix stuff around our house (to be fair, he actually does way more but it's been 19 days and I'm annoyed). And he cooks. Boy, does he cook.

After a decade together, I am pretty sure that hubby’s culinary interest is partly because he truly loves to provide sustenance for his family. It makes him happy. But I think his desire to cook also stems from the fact that he knows it makes me horny. Really. For some reason beyond my understanding, I sort of want to rip hubby’s clothes off whenever he makes stuffed cabbage or turkey stew. I try to fight it – who wants someone to have that sort of power over you – but it's not always easy.

When hubby told me not so long ago that he wanted to make us a nice home-cooked dinner, I paused. This would be difficult. I had work to do, deadlines to meet and Facebook pages to peruse. Hubby left for Whole Foods. When he returned home, loaded up with a couple of heavy bags, the pleased look on his face said, “You are mine.” I ignored him.

ID-100122467Within about an hour, waves of aromatic bliss drifted into our bedroom, where I was working. Following the delicious scent, I wandered into the kitchen to find hubby sautéing ingredients that I recognized immediately. Oh, no. Not Mexican. Hubby knows that I have no self-control when he cooks Mexican food. I am not in the mood right now, I remind myself. I don't want Mexican Dinner Sex. I must be strong.

And yet, I felt tingles down below. My tummy grumbled. I wanted a burrito, dammit. And more than that, I wanted hubby. I needed him. Immediately.

I stepped behind him, snaking my arms around his shoulders. I turned him towards me and kissed him passionately. Within seconds we were on the bed, fumbling with each other’s clothes. Once undressed, his fingers carefully made their way down, gently probing. I felt hot.

Then hotter.

Then hotter.

I said, “Hubby, it’s hot down there.”

“I know, Baby.”

“No, it’s really hot down there. It hurts.”

We paused, looking at each other. After a few short, scary seconds we screamed, “HOT PEPPERS!!!”

My vagina was on fire.

I ran to the shower, letting out a piecing yell along the way. Hubby trailed after me, apologizing profusely. As I flushed out my nether regions, he stood over the sink, scrubbing his hands maniacally. After a minute or two, he looked at me with a hopeful smile and asked through the shower glass door, “Should we try again?”

“Try again? Are you crazy?!!! My vagina is on fire!”

“But it’s fine now, no?” hubby asked, rubbing his eyes.



“Ooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww.” Apparently, the heat in hot peppers doesn't come off with soap and water, because hubby made a dive for the sink, drowning his face in a pool of cold water. While he did, I howled as I continued to use the shower head as my personal vagina fire extinguisher.

I don’t remember how the burritos tasted that night. Or if we had sex once my genitalia had cooled down and hubby recovered his eyesight. Despite the pain, I still get pretty horny when he cooks, though these days we make sure he uses ingredients that won't heat up my vagina like a Fourth of July barbecue pit.

And whenever we have Mexican, which is usually at a place where someone other than hubby handles the hot peppers, we glance at each other and smile, remembering the night that he got me hot in a way I never expected.

(photo credit: Grant Cochrane/

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