*** Warning: This post contains some adult content. ***
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| Photo courtesy of stockfreeimages.com |
I met my husband almost nine years ago, before law school (and well before law school debt). At the beginning of our relationship, I was at the tail end of my college career and didn’t really have a care in the world.
Sex was easy. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights were spent out at the bars with friends, and then we’d stumble home after post-bar time pizza or burgers (“hangover sponges” as we called them). Even drunk and full of greasy, toxic waste, we’d still find a way to get it on. I recall one time, after an all day pub crawl, I was freezing cold when my then-boyfriend (now husband) and I got home, so I jumped into the shower with my clothes on. The water warmed me up and – possibly feeling inspired by a foreign film I’d recently seen at the independent cinema near campus (was it the bathtub scene in The Dreamers?) – I jumped into bed, wet clothes still on, and we proceeded to have one of the hottest sexual encounters I can remember. I recall different positions, scattered bottles of lube, and waking up wearing his tee-shirt and my high heels from the night before.
