When he gets home from work, he’s always too tired to fool around. You’d think at his age he’d be tearing off his pants at the mere hint of s*x, but he spends long days on construction sites doing God knows what, and it wears him out. Most of the time he comes home, shucks off his clothes, and hops in the shower while I make dinner. If he has a bad day, he’ll talk about it. Otherwise he only grunts when I ask him anything.
The evenings usually wind down with us cuddling in front of the TV. Sometimes I manage to ease down the zipper of his jeans and slip my fingers into his fly during a commercial break, but I can’t push too far. Fondling’s as far as I get before he’ll catch my wrist and tell me, “Come on, hon. You know I’m worn out.”
He’s tired, I know, and he has to get up early in the
