at least pride cometh before a fall...even if no one else does.

On my knees, doing the slow-drag and firm lick technique, actually getting into it, enjoying the feel of his hardening cock in my mouth, the sense of power that comes from bringing pleasure to a man that way, the subtle movement of his hips; awaiting the sigh that is the male equivalent of "Don't stop".

I'd gotten into a slight rhythm (okay, so it was the Sumthin' Sumthin' Mellosmoothe cut from the Love Jones soundtrack -- sue me; I mentally mark giving head to music), and was really feeling like "I've suprised my husband with some head on a lazy spring Sunday afternoon, what a good wife I am, and damnit, I'm gonna give him some good brain, too" (I was even thinking about moving into some 'Til the Cops Come Knocking' good-and-steady), when I heard it. The intake of breath, the tensing of his stomach muscles...

"Fuck! We forgot the lava rocks!"

So picture this: me, prepared to sweat my (newly pressed) hair out, kneeling before a man who, instead of being awed by my skills and generosity, has apparently been ruminating on the fact that we did not go to Lowe's today to get the lava rocks to go around the house -- his project for his week off of work.

Have things changed so much? I'm tempted to call my exes and ask them "Did you mentally change your oil while I was giving you head?" "Was all that moaning and ish a show, or were you expressing your dismay over the fact that you'd forgotten to pick up your dry cleaning?" I made a man's knees buckle once; extracted a penis from trousers without my hands.

And now my husband, sweet man that he is, is trying to make me feel better. "I'm just medicated," he says. "Maybe later?"

I may never perform fellatio again.