In the beginning, every serious romantic entanglement is an electric, superconducting, steamy, fleshy hump festival. New sex partner = new sex, and new sex = lots of sex. That’s sex math. You’re in the kitchen making pasta sauce—bam!—you’re having sex on the floor. You’re parking the car in the garage—bam—you’re having sex in the car. But inevitably, invariably, it wears off. Soon all your conversations, once so filled with erotic promise, are about bills and barfy kids and how that swollen knee makes your leg look like Jackie Gleason’s.
Then, one night, she’s sitting next to you on the couch, perfecting her mock-Piers Morgan accent, when she stops and says, “Man, I really want a Slurpee.” Meaning, of course: “Will you go get me a Slurpee?” But by now you’re way past the white-knight stage of the relationship, so you don’t budge. And then it occurs to her.
"Will you get me a Slurpee if I give you a blow job?"