The Peek

I feel like my wife is always trying to get a peek at me naked. I take this as a compliment, since we’ve been married more than ten years now. I mean, I’m glad my appeal hasn’t worn off for her yet. So I let her have her peeks. I facilitate them, is what I’m trying to say. I’ll get out of the shower and wrap my leopard print towel around my waist and walk around the house a bit, trying to find her. When I’ve found her, say, in the kitchen having a bowl of cereal, I won’t say anything. I’ll pretend to look through the fridge or act like I need to pull the blender from one of the high cupboards. As I’m doing this, I kind of wiggle my butt—imperceptibly, so she doesn’t know what I’m doing—until the towel falls down around my feet. Then I’m just standing there naked, holding a cup of yogurt, or maybe it’s the blender. It’s just me and the blender and her. Except that I’m naked.

She doesn’t say anything, tries to ignore me, but I know she gets a pretty big thrill out of this. If you saw me standing there in the buff with the blender, naked, the leopard skin at my feet, you’d know she was getting a thrill. That’s an important part of being a good husband, giving your wife a little thrill every now and then, helping her to feel like a school girl again.

The other day—and I hope this isn’t too intimate to share with, say, one billion Internet users world wide—I was on the toilet, and she barges in, yelling about I don’t know what. She was mad at something, or pretending to be mad at something, accusing me of—seriously, I can’t even say. It was totally incoherent. That’s when I knew what it was really about, this surprise visit as I sat partially nude on the toilet.

She wanted a peek.

So I called her on it. I said, Honey, if you’re in here for a peek then take it and get out. What could she say? The game was up and she knew it. In the end, though, I think she got what she practically busted down the bathroom door for: a little peek.