TMI virgin here. Let’s do this thing:

OK, so I wanted to make this really wonderful pot roast on Sunday. It was a cool fall day, not cold but just a little crisp, and a slow, home cooked meal sounded just right. I am a major foodie and take great pride in making great meals.

I usually post my weekend menus on my Facebook status and I have fans waiting to read it. I shit you not. I have friends that love food that much and are just that desperate for entertainment. Sad but true.

So I toddle off to Kroger and come home with a beautiful shoulder roast intending to make this hunk of beef my crockpot’s bitch.

I add a little stock and mire poix veggies to the pot, sear the meat, deglaze that skillet and place the roast into the slow cooker, set it for low and got a bunch of other stuff done around the house.

After a couple of hours I check in on the roast. It’s beautifully brown, the veggies are perfect and the sauce is delicious. Ready to serve in less than a half hour.

So now it was time for a cold beer and a hot shower.

I grab a brew and head up to the bathroom. I get all soapy in the shower, lather, rinse and repeat and feel completely refreshed.

I wrap up in my big soft bathrobe, and maybe it’s the beer talking, but I am feeling a little amorous. Hot. Randy. Horny.

So I go looking for my hubby.

Now he’s a man, so all I really need to do is ask “You wanna?” and BOING! I have his complete attention. He follows me back to the bedroom, takes his own shower, and we proceed to have toe-curling, fireworks-type sex. Long, slow, hot monkey lovin’.

For over an hour. Almost two.

So then we got dressed and head down stairs for dinner. And we find the once-gorgeous roast now has the texture of an NFL football. Completely overcooked. Dinner pretty much ruined.

We opened a bottle of wine and ate the tough meat anyway.

And it was so totally worth it.