Your relentless optimism is commendable, Dear Reader. Every time my Wife is in the mood, at least one of your number voices their hope that this will be a turning point. That She has finally connected with Her inner nympho. That we will finally have regular sex.

The problem with optimism is that it so often flies in the face of probability. And as satisfactory as the sex was two or three weeks ago, there is no evidence your recent optimism had any foundation. Perhaps I should expect less? Whatever.

As the end of the summer holidays approach, we’re squeezing in a family week in the countryside. I think twice now, as We have packed for such vacations, She has asked if I had packed condoms. I hadn’t. Why would I? I don’t ever expect to have sex. Only blind hope or presumption would prompt me to do so.

I didn’t pack condoms this time.
Why would I?
She didn’t ask if i had.
That’s ok. In the wake of The Great Bra Burning of the 1960s, it is not frowned upon for women to desire cock and men have been relieved of the obligation to slip rubber tubes into their wallets in case they may get to slip sometging ekse into something else. My Wife is eminently capable of taking care of such matters herself – She is an adamantmy liberated woman – and as the gatekeeper for Our physical relationship, it does not seem inappropriate that She should carry the rubbery roll on keys to merital harmony.
She didnt pack condoms.
It was a long shot but I wondered if She had packed The Infamous Red Lingerie.
She had not.

Well, if nothing else, that adds weight to my assumtion that it would have been futile to presume.

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