High stakes and self-sacrifice

My husband Sam and I have a little game we like to play that involves an ultimatum of sorts. I like to think of it as a dark version of Would You Rather, as in, would you rather be, ahem, sodomized by Rush Limbaugh or Ann Coulter? Death, by the way, is not an option.

Of course, our version of this game--devolved and deranged as it is--requires an incentive to make the unpalatable choices worth contemplation in the first place. And therefore, with monetary compensation attached, our brainteaser is more akin to Indecent Proposal, albeit a bastardized version. The most obvious differences being that the spouse-pimping goes in both directions and the object of our deal, as a rule, doesn't come close to resembling Robert Redford.

For example, while walking on the beach a few months ago, my mister and I saw an octogenarian surfer-type who'd clearly devoted the 9-to-5 hours of his post-retirement years to a primarily barefoot existence. His shoeless, sea-weary feet had not seen a bacteria-free surface since perhaps the first moonwalk, and merely glancing at his weathered hooves required an inner strength I didn't know I possessed--what with the clinging barnacles, crusted sand, tar-filled calluses and peeling layers of brittle fungus. This is to say nothing of his jaundice-hued pedicure from last season. His nails were thick and long, and were he to suddenly up and choose to wear water-socks or (heinous) Crocs for instance, he'd likely have to go up two full sizes to accommodate his curling talons.

Sam and I each did our discreet once-over--me gagging just a little--before he beat me to the challenge: Would you suck his toes for a million dollars?

Hell no! was my immediate and determined answer, an answer already visible on my contorted face well before I spit the words from my soured mouth. With this audible declaration, I launched the predictable argument we have every time we play our game. It's a heated debate in which I maintain that a million dollars isn't worth what it used to be--even tax-free--and in which Sam maintains that a cool mil, so easily earned, would set our family in comfy stead for some ambiguous length of time.

Alternatively, when I posed the same question to him, Sam said a fast and unequivocal hell yes!--he'd eat them toes and he'd like it. He would drop to all fours and suck, lick, even caress with his lingual frenulum that man's phalanges and the deep crevasses in between for $1 million because, you know, there's Listerine.

And to think that that mouth kisses mine.

But I digress. The outcome of all proposals is generally the same because, to my horror, Sam will basically do anything (and I do mean anything) for $1 million, while I will pretty much do nothing (and I do mean nothing) for the same price. Call me stupid, selfish, foolish, prudish, priggish, high-end, whatever: There simply isn't enough Listerine in the Costco storehouse to entice me into most liaisons in general, and this one in particular. It is for this reticence that I suffer incessant chiding for setting my standards "way too high."

Ultimately, it all boils down to the fact that Sam can be bought at a far cheaper price than can I. And with the prospect of our little family unit sailing into a Balinese sunset with a few dollars in the bank, well, Sam will do whatever it takes.

I realize I'm lucky to have this man looking out for me. I'm grateful for his dedication and the opportunity to live in a state of oblivious security knowing he'll stop at nothing to protect those that he loves most. He's a survivor, a man with a plan, the guy who walks into a room and instinctively makes mental note of the location of the emergency exit. I can sleep at night knowing that when Armageddon arrives and frogs drop from the sky, Sam will see to it that our family makes it out alive.

Clearly, I cannot be counted on to quite the same degree. I'm simply not that selfless, and I don't apologize for this shortcoming.

Yet, I can finally make up for all the times I've been the party-pooper during our games. I've finally discovered something for which I would be willing to compromise my nosebleed-high standards, that one thing for which I can finally abandon my superior attitude.

You see, a friend recently sent me a photo of a woman at a protest, holding a sign high above her head, asking someone to please, please give George W. Bush a blowjob so that impeachment could become a reality. This woman had me at "hello." In her plain request, I heard my patriotic calling.

And though the physical act of fellating King George is one of the vilest, lowliest things I could ever possibly engage in, the resulting impeachment would be worth the humiliation. It's a purpose so righteous and well intentioned that I wouldn't even need the million-dollar carrot dangling in front of my nose as foreplay (no pun intended). Nope. I would do this job gratis.

So it is that I am willing to throw myself on the sword--or toothpick, as it were--for the good of not just my family, but for the whole of humanity. I am officially volunteering to do The Job for the benefit and survival of all humankind. Nobody says it has to be a good blowjob (sorry about the teeth, Mr. President) and I'm not gonna throw in any extras, if you know what I mean. But I do have a blue Gap dress I could wear. I only hope that Nancy Pelosi is paying attention and that Sam is waiting for me with the Listerine when I'm done.

Write to aaryn@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com.