The Ecstasy & the Agony

I was watching Desperate Housewives last week, and although I watch it regularly, there is not a hell of a lot that I ever empathise with; it is usually for pure entertainment purposes only. When I want to watch something that I can relate to, it’s more along the lines of Location, Location, Location. Desperate Housewives is so ridiculous that I cannot help but love it, along with the other simulacrum worlds within Young & the Restless and Days of Our Lives. I can’t deny it – I’ve always been a sucker for this kind of fantasy story lines that ooze with clichés and hyper sexual characters.


Even my friends in high school would refer to my own personal life as the ‘Soap Opera of Stephanie’. It wasn’t because my personality was dramatic – because I wasn’t, by any means, but I somehow always managed to get myself into odd situations that vaguely followed some sort of plotline... so I’ve been told. In my head, I always thought my life was fairly boring – which is why I enjoyed the escapism that shows like Y&R and Housewives provide. Although my husband might argue this point, I actually am aware of the ridiculousness of these shows, honestly, I am.

Desperate Housewives, ABC Sundays

So, yes, I enjoy these shows and usually have zero going on in my own life that could even come close to compare with some of these outrageous storylines, but I caught myself relating to Bree Van De Kamp for probably the very first time in 7 seasons. She has recently hooked up with her handyman – a slight recycling of Gabrielle’s affair with the gardener, but nevertheless, at least this time around Bree is single. He is at least 20 years her junior, tattooed and smokin’ hot! (Green has sure come a long way since his geeky teens, that’s for damn sure.) Along with his tight youthful body, she is also enjoying the stamina that comes with it... for all of 1 day. After the second day, she is so sore that she has to walk around like a rodeo cowgirl. She had to invent exhausting tasks for him in the hope that he would be too tired to go for a 3rd straight night of a sexual marathon. Oh lord, I laughed so hard!

My experience wasn’t with someone 20 years my junior, but he was definitely the cool tattooed bad boy. I had met him online and he was the bass player in a Punk band. I had stars in my eyes for this guy, for sure – and I wasn’t an idiot not to notice that the feelings were a bit lopsided on my side. After a few dates he invited me back to his ‘bachelor apartment’ which literally consisted of a day-bed, bathroom, kitchenette and a small TV unit. There really wasn’t much else to do but have sex – for the majority of the evening. That went pretty well and I enjoyed holding on to his thick tattooed arms while my legs were spread high in the air.

A couple days after that, we arranged to spend the night in a hotel in the city. From the moment we arrived, it was a continuous screwfest. I couldn’t believe that he could last for so long – maybe now I think he might have taken a pretty blue pill, but who knows. I hadn’t really recovered from the last time we were together so my lady bits quickly became dry and sore; it felt like I was literally on fire – I guess friction will do that! We had to migrate to the shower to help things along – which it did with the heat, but not with the pain. A smarter (and less selfish) lover would have switched to a more oral activity for my pleasure and relief, but this guy was only interested in 1 singular motion.

I had to get up early for school the next morning – and he had to go to work – so luckily, no sunrise surprise for me. Thank god! I tried to walk and it was excruciating! I was walking exactly like how Bree walked after her sex-a-thon. I couldn’t even hide it or force myself to walk normally – it wasn’t possible – a wheelchair would have been a fantastic solution.

Of course, my friends at College noticed right away and proclaimed, “The Rockstar?” I responded with an injured “Yyyyes.” And they just proceeded to mock me for the rest of the day – and I couldn’t even laugh along with them, mainly because any sudden muscle movement from the waist down was almost unbearable. Even just sitting in class I could feel my thighs throbbing and I could have sworn they were emitting heat. I got 2 text messages from him that afternoon – and I ignored them both; I needed a break. Just like Bree, the next time I saw him I needed to say, “For heaven’s sake, put that thing away!” Thank you Desperate Housewives for reminding me of that memory that only now can I truly laugh at.