I love this contest. It only cost me a buck. When I lose I won't feel so bad.

I also love the topic of this contest. What interest do I have that I wish my partner would share? Let's start with sex.

I'm tired of having sex alone.

In the beginning I was happy. I enjoyed not having to get all dolled up and shaving my legs. I even enjoyed not having to pretend to be excited about getting on top and doing all the work.

Now, after years of going solo, I think I would enjoy my partner making a brief appearance for a nightly performance. I'd even give a standing ovation for a second curtain call.

The other thing I wish my partner would share is an interest in writing. He likes looking at pictures ... of naked women. I wouldn't mind if I were one of the women, but that ship sailed a few decades ago.

My partner wishes I would share his interest in cooking, cleaning, and laundry. I see no point in both of us vying for top-dog in household duties. I relinquish all aspirations of domesticity. I'm an artist. Artists don't do laundry, but we do get horny and that brings me back to the first part of my story.

The last time we, (meaning he and I) had sex, I got a charlie horse in my leg. It was really very embarrassing. I almost crushed his head.

After years of vigorous intercourse, our sex life transcended to oral copulation. It was okay for a few years. It required less back breaking dexterity. Things came to a head much quicker, (no pun intended), until one night he said, "Why don't you ever swallow?'

I looked up and over his considerable beer gut and said,"Pardon me?"

"Swallow. Swallow. Why don't you?"

"Are you serious?" I said, sitting up and lighting a cigarette.

"I just notice that you always spit it out. Don't you like my taste?"

I thought about his question for a moment, and remembered the first time I'd gagged down a raw oyster. I took another drag off my cig and a big drink of my room temperature Pellegrino, and did what all women do, I lied.

"Oh, my darling. You have the most exquisite taste; unlike the other men I've had the pleasure of blowing. The only reason I don't swallow your love nectar is strictly selfish. I spit you into my hands and rush to the bathroom to apply your glisten to my face and decolletage. How do you think I keep such lovely skin?"

I think he bought it.

My big question has always been, "Why do men care?"

Once they propel the protoplasm of love, are they still somehow emotionally attached to it? Perhaps we should bottle it, keep it on a shelf, and make fancy labels describing the events of the evening. If the joy juice is so precious, why aren't men willing to clean up after themselves post royal gush into my Queenly canal?

Let's face it, two swallows make for a happy nest, unless of course, one is a chicken.

I love this contest!