The Internal Dialog of a Woman Wrestling With A Wet Noodle of a Husband

Alright, here we go. I’m trying to get things moving, but it’s like a half-melted ice cream cone down there. I mean, Viagra exists for a reason, buddy! What’s the excuse this time? Oh, wait — he can’t take Viagra. Of course not. He’s got heart issues, he says. Well, if that’s the case, where’s my hypnosis skills when I need them? If I could wave a magic wand, this thing would go rock-hard in three seconds flat, and he’d be ready to nail twenty women back-to-back, cumming like a goddamn fire hose each time.

But instead, here I am, wrestling with a sad, floppy flap of skin that just won’t cooperate. It’s like trying to stuff a jellyfish into a keyhole. It keeps slipping, sliding, mocking me with its absolute refusal to rise to the occasion. I give it a squeeze, a pull, anything to get the blood flowing. Nothing. Nada. Limp as a piece of wet pasta.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I think, trying not to laugh — or cry. Maybe I should just give it a pep talk: “C’mon, little guy, I believe in you!” But even I know there’s no resuscitating this sad noodle tonight.

Eventually, I just give up. I mean, there’s only so much a girl can do. I’ve got things to do, and this ain’t one of them.