Much to MRS’s chagrin, our sex life has popped up as semi-frequent topic on my blog. And today, it rears its ugly head again. In the past I’ve complained about the systematic collapse our bedroom activity has sustained since we began procreating. I’ve lamented about my needs not being fulfilled. I’ve moaned about my numerous lonely nights by the fire with a glass of wine, my favorite quilt, and the gossamer hope that MRS would saunter by with a gleam in her eye. I’ve solicited aid from the blogosphere to intercede on my behalf with an email campaign urging MRS to embrace her wifely duties. Though as campaigns go, I must admit the groundswell I was hoping for didn’t quite materialize.

Today I have news that’s bound to send shockwaves along the information superhighway. It’s also bound to subjugate what little manhood left floating in my bloodstream. Essentially, the headline would read:

MCDAD TURNS DOWN SEX!!!

Yes boys and girls, it’s true. I couldn’t believe it myself. I spent most of the wee hours scouring the archives confirming the fact that this is something I’ve never done before. Even the night of my appendix surgery in 1991, I manned up and took care of business.

WHY?

That is the big question—the elephant in the corner of the room. Has McDad’s infamous libido finally succumbed to Father Time’s inevitable assault? Is McDad suffering from some diabolical disease? Has McDad decided to switch teams? Is MRS really a tranny? Was McDad recovering from a gunshot wound? Is the apocalypse actually upon us?

The simple answer to all these questions is “no.â€? Rest assured, the sun, as well as other things, will rise again tomorrow. The real answer is just as simple: I was tired. There it is. I am human. I am not a machine. If you cut me, I do bleed.

THE DETAILS

Early in the day MRS and I discussed a post kids-to-bed rendezvous in the boudoir. Maybe a little cuddling? Maybe a pay-per-view feature motion picture? Maybe a little ….. you fill in the blanks. Pretty much no holds barred, throw caution to the wind, turn back the clock, ba-da-bing. The problem was that we had a long stressful day with the kids that started at 5 am because Lulu apparently thinks we are farmers. By the time I made it to bed around 9:30, I was spent—and not just regular tired, but the kind of tired that only comes from dealing with insane little children for an extended period of time. I’m guessing any parents reading this post don’t require further explanation on this matter. So, MRS was reading a book, and in my defense, about 95% of the time that she agrees to evening play dates, she opts out of the deal with casual disregard. Thusly, my expectations were pessimistic anyway. This night, Vegas odds-makers took a beating, and MRS tapped me on the shoulder—the universal high-sign that all men desire—only to find a lifeless flesh-lump where her overly-pubescent husband used to live. “Thanks anyway, honey. I’m good,â€? I muttered and rolled over. Cue the snoring. MRS is left to deal with unprecedented rejection.

LIBERATION

I have to say that after being on the wrong end of that exchange a few thousand times in the past twenty some odd years, it was refreshing to be the denier vs. the deny-ee. I now understand the power-trip you gals experience with this level of control. And I’d proclaim to enact this power again and again expect for one significant drawback: enacting said power means I don’t get to have sex. And when you boil it all down, that’s not really what I’m looking for. And that’s no fun. So despite the euphoric liberation that the power of denial may supply, I pledge to return to my normal state of sad, desperate, begging, pathetic husbandry. It’s the role that I’ve come to thrive on, and it’s the role that I must perpetuate.

In life it’s vital to know one’s place. And as I approach the tender age of 41, I know my place like the back of my hand.