Sex with Dogs

          If there's any myth about gays and lesbians I'd like to debunk it's the stereotype that we are a hyper-sexed people prone to one-night stands, threesomes, and all manner of fetishes.  (Please.  We don't even own chains for our tires.) Some would pontificate that condoning homosexuality pushes the sled of morality down an icy, slippery slope at breakneck speed.  What would happen next?, they posit.  Plural marriage?  Sex with animals?
          We are here to attest that our sex life is about as scandal-free as they come.  (No pun intended.)  While our dog does factor into this aspect of our lives, she serves a role the Morality Police would relish: that of a deterrent.
           Our dog Fluffy is a sweet little rescue pup who dearly loves her people.  She curls up with us on the couch when we watch t.v. and rides in the car with us on brief errands.  She "helps" drop off the recycling each week and makes a wonderful hiking companion.  We often pick dog-friendly restaurants when eating out so that she can join us.  She wants to do everything with us.  And we mean everything.
          To her credit, our dog has been ingenious in developing a wide repertoire of strategies for derailing our most intimate moments.  Sometimes, she sets a romantic mood by bringing her food in the bedroom to crunch loudly or by slurping water from her bowl with significant force, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she is very, very thirsty.  (Move over, Barry White.  There's a new soundtrack in town.)  Other times, she thinks the whole event is a big puppy pile-on, jumps on the bed, and rests on top of both of us while furiously licking our faces.  Usually, she opts for a more direct approach and brings us a squeaky tug toy.  We imagine her thought bubble is, "Hey, guys!  I know a better game we can play!"
          Since adopting Fluffy two years ago, our foreplay has devolved from passionate kisses and gentle whispers to ridiculous attempts to keep the dog occupied and off our bed.  Once, hearts palpitating, we hid small treats for her around the living room in the style of an Easter egg hunt.  Dog biscuits were under couch cushions, behind table legs, and even in plain view.  Our plan was foiled, however, when she found the most obvious bones and did not think to search for others.  We were just a few kisses into the act when we heard the jangle of dog tags and the pitter-patter of little paws coming down the hall. 
          Over time, we've gotten a bit wiser and have figured out that a large, chewy bone will keep Fluffy busy for a mostly adequate amount of time.  In our house, this is what we call a sex toy.  Even though we don't keep pace with the licentious stereotypes, on a good night you just might find us kissing, exchanging knowing looks, and saying, "Shall we give Fluffy a big treat?"