I love a good trashy romance novel. A quick read with minimal plot but lots of charisma and sexy characters will do me just fine. I keep a special basket of such books next to the toilet because it seems like the only time I have lately to read is when I'm in the privacy of my own bathroom. Even then, I'm usually accompanied by Gun-Gun who's critiquing my every move, and commenting that he's "pooh-farted" in his own potty chair. Yes, it's a glamorous life but someone has to live it.

For the most part, Hubby stays out of my basket while he's doing his business and instead, partakes amongst a new issue of some hunting magazine or Harbor Freight. Tonight, for whatever reason, he decided to delve into the forbidden basket and shower me with his own emotional reading. As I sat on my bed perusing the 'net I could hear him talking loudly through the bathroom door. My attention shifted to his voice and I could hear the familiar ramblings of my current novel, being brought to life by my amorous husband.

Initially, I was intrigued to hear his version; however, this intrigue turned to disgust once I heard the constant pausing due to his attention being drawn to other personal matters. I begged for him to stop reading, and to quit defiling both my book and the bathroom. He finally stopped and emerged from his sanctuary with a huge grin on his face.

Needless to say, I will never be able to read that certain book without the memories he provided me tonight. I guess I should appreciate the efforts he put forth into our love life but lovin' just ain't the same coming through a bathroom door.