So my family and I are now back from vacationing and visiting with relatives in the Appalachian southeast. We had a wonderful week. And a not-so-wonderful day on the return trip. Between post-boyhood interstate reconfigurations, traffic jams, small-airport crew-management issues, weather delays, and therefore-squeezed connecting flight schedules we had a pretty hectic, cranky, and generally uncivil-to-each-other time. (Which we’ve recovered from as well — one bad day does not a bad vacation make.)

I bring this up not to brag that we got to watch an old-fashioned, 4th-of-July fireworks alternative anvil shoot (photo here), or that we had excellent pizza under an awning in a slowly-reviving urban plaza during a glorious thunderstormy downpour, or even to justify the slow posting schedule over the last seven days or so.

Nope. I bring it up because of a thought that popped into my head on a between-concourses escalator as my family was fleeing from one satellite terminal to another via aerial tram and mad dash, desperately hoping to catch our connecting flight and maybe, just maybe, grab a little food to go since they no longer have meals on airplanes. And the though was…

I like sex. Like it? I love sex! Heck, I like it so much I blog about it all the time. But here’s the deal. If at that moment, on that escalator, hurtling midway across the time-zone-wide Houston airport, my very dear and very attractive partner had suggested we have sex… in fact had Gina Lollobrigida (born 1927), Kristen Bell (born 1980), and my partner (born in between) suggested we have a nice impromptu four-way while “no-sex” class, disinterested in sex and incapable of a rich and varied sexuality all my own. It would be because even though I’m at home I’m… well… at work. And sex at work is generally a lot easier in fantasy than in reality.

I’m glad to be home. But being home means I’m also back at work. Sex at work is cool, but a little trickier in reality than in fantasy.