"While performing the 'dorsal straddle,’ the male sits above his mate’s back with his hands and feet grasping or resting on a leaf, branch or tree trunk," my hubby read enthusiastically from his tablet, grinning like a filthy-minded Cheshire Cat.
"I’m sure the arm of the sofa would work just fine as a substitute for a tree branch," he added helpfully.
I’ve learned over the years the best way to derail my husband’s many, many stupid ideas is to kill them in their infancy, before they can evolve from the merely dumb to the profoundly disastrous. The best approach is usually to zero in on a single deal-killing logistical problem he has failed to consider.
"Honey, I don’t have dorsal fins," I pointed out. "How can you straddle something I don’t have?"
Unfortunately, my husband isn’t quite as clueless as my brain typically perceives him to be.
"Frogs don’t have fins either," he correctly noted. "They do, however, like both of us, have dorsal muscles, which is what the name of the position is referencing."
Well, fuck me; whaddya know? The guy can read.
Why We Won't Be Doing It "Froggy Style"
As it turned out, though, my surprisingly literate husband hadn’t read quite far enough.
Taking the tablet from him, I quickly scanned the article, looking for an inarguable deal-killer that could dampen my spouse’s enthusiasm for a new form of mounting me from behind.
As it turned out, all I had to do was to finish reading the same paragraphs he had been quoting to me.
"The male releases sperm over the female’s back before moving away," I read aloud. "The female then lays her eggs, which are fertilized by the sperm trickling down her back…. there is no actual physical contact between the sexes during egg laying and fertilization."
The look on his face was like I’d just told him he couldn’t have a puppy.
"Give me that," he snapped as he snatched the tablet from my grasp.
His face sank as he continued to read down the screen. Even so, I knew the wheels in his mind must be spinning, searching desperately for a rationalization which would keep his frog-mimicking sexual fantasy alive.
"Well, what if I just kinda rubbed it between your butt cheeks without putting it in?" he asked hopefully.
I crossed my arms, tilted my head forward slightly, tapped one foot and glared at him over the upper rim of my glasses with a look he long ago coined the "Sonoran Death Stare."
"Nevermind," he wisely replied, gently setting the tablet back on the coffee table.
I would declare victory at this point - except I know the latest edition of National Geographic just arrived, and there’s a big section about the behavior of Great White sharks - so it’s bound to be a long week.
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