The Sex Room In My Garage Is Officially Closed
I’m moving on to bigger and better things.
Dear neighbours, social media acquaintances, and party poopers in general,
This will be the last you will ever hear from me. Don’t worry: I’m not angry with you and the plethora of poorly-worded complaint letters you’ve sent my way. How could I be mad when I’ve just had the revelation of a lifetime?
Yes: the rumours are true. The sex room in my garage, where I spent countless hours walking my husband on a leash in leather bondage attire and built a total of 57 homemade sex toys — is now closed.
All I wanted was a safe space to get my freak on with the man that I love. A small corner of this blue-green marble in which I could sprawl my oiled body upon a heart-shaped rotating bed and get my toes sucked for an hour, or four. A room that had an average width of ten feet or more, so that when my husband Land Sharked me, he had enough space to run at my derriere while holding his arms above his head in fin-like mimicry and humming the Jaws soundtrack. I don’t think that was too much to ask.
It wasn’t enough that you laugh-reacted at my GoFundMe campaign to raise funds for said sex room. No. Once my husband and I managed to cobble together enough couch change and borrowed birthday money from our kids…
