What's My Line?

There used to be a show on television called, '

What's My Line?

'. A panel of participants had to ask questions of a contestant and then determine from his or her answers what was the occupation of the contestant. I always thought it was a pretty lame show.

Around our house, we have some pretty interesting conversations at times. Most of them involve sexual questions, ponderings, or ideas. One of those conversations reminded me of that old program.

"Honey?"

"Hmmm?" He always sounds so bored when I first address him.

"What do you fantasize about when we're having sex?"

He never even looks up. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. What do you think about when we're having sex?" Sometimes, I wonder if we need a translator.

"I think about what we're doing. Why?" Men are so logical.

I sigh. "No. I mean,

who

do you think about, then?"

"You. Why?" Good answer, but not the one I'm looking for.

"Noooo! We're talking fantasy here, okay? Who is your 'go to' fantasy sex partner?" I try again.

He lays down the paper and takes off his reading glasses. "I don't think I understand your question. What do you mean

who

is my fantasy partner? I don't need a fantasy partner. I have a real partner. You."

"Why do you always have to make everything so complicated? I just asked a simple question. You'd think, just once, you could give me a simple answer."

"I'm not trying to complicate things. I just don't understand what you mean by fantasy."

"Nobody is as hardheaded as you. You're trying to avoid answering my question. You just don't want me to know." Why do men never want you to know what they are thinking?

"It's not that. I just don't understand your question. Let me try this. Who do

you

think about when we're having sex?" He narrows those pretty blue eyes at me and I start squirming a bit in my chair. I pretend I'm thinking about it for a minute.

"What's the matter, Miss Smart-ass? It's a simple question. Why don't you answer me?" I

hate

when he does this to me.

"Okay. So, maybe we better not name names. My original question was what do you think about. Let's go back to that."

He starts to laugh. "I still can't answer your question."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have sex fantasies."

"Bullshit!" comes out as a faked cough behind my hand. "Everyone has sex fantasies."

"Apparently, not everyone, because I don't." He looks so smug when he says it.

"Don't hand me that crap! I know better."

"You don't know squat! Give me an example of one your fantasies and then, maybe I can relate."

"You're just being difficult again." I decide to try a different approach. I reach over and run my hand down his chest. By the time I make it to his penis, he's showing some interest.

"What does

that

make you think about?" I ask as give him a nice massage.

"It makes me think about you getting fucked by me in just about tens seconds."

Ugh! He is so frustrating. I take my hand away again.

"What did you stop for? I was just about to make all your fantasies come true for you."

He's so cute when he's being difficult.

He sees my pout and sighs. "Baby, I don't know what to tell you. I

don't

fantasize about anyone or anything when we're having sex. I don't have dreams at night either. So, what does that tell you?"

"It tells me you're either dead, or you don't have an imagination, one of the two. What makes you cum when you masturbate?"

Maybe this approach will work better.

"My hand. Or, your hand if you're willing." He tilts his head at me again. "I tell you what. Why don't you let me watch you masturbate and you can tell me what you're thinking about while you do. Maybe I can get the hang of this whole fantasizing thing then."

How did I marry this man? Some days, I don't even know who he is.

I shake my head in wonder. "Okay, if I tell you one of my fantasies, will you tell me one of yours?"

"Go ahead. Let's try it and see." This looks promising, finally.

"So...sometimes, I think about you maybe tying me up and having me give you head. Then, you fucking me doggie style."

He looks disappointed. "That doesn't count as fantasy."

"Why not?"

"Because we did that last night. It's the same thing as me thinking about fucking you when I'm fucking you. Did you ever stop to think that maybe you don't have sex fantasies either? Maybe you should consider giving up writing erotica."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because it's possible you're like me and you don't have an imagination. Do you want me to fuck you now, or would you rather sit around and dream up imaginary people doing imaginary things?"

Maybe playing 'What's My Line' wasn't so lame after all.