I was talking to Robbie about the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics, and I mentioned how good one of the color commentators for NBC was. “What?” he said.

“The color commentator was really . . .”

“The what commentator?”

I took a breath and launched into an explanation. “It’s the guy who . . .”

Robbie suppressed a growl. He finds my innate inability to give him the answer to the question he’s actually asking, rather than the information I know he wants, profoundly irritating. “What’s the word you’re saying before ‘commentator?'”


“What’s a color commentator?”

My turn to not-growl. “He’s the guy who’s not the main commentator, but who adds little interesting facts to the commentary.”

“Oh. Okay, go on . . . “

Most of the time we converse this elliptically. I guess we like each other so much we are willing to slog through thigh-high verbal slush on a minute-by-minute basis. And despite the slog, we had great talks this visit, a great, kinky time, and very few fights.

“God, you’re an argumentative bitch”–said with a wicked smile before kissing me and bending me over to fuck me–doesn’t count as a fight. That’s just colorful commentary.

Images by Swedish photographer Knotan, courtesy, once more, of Sex in Art.