sex diaries

The Firefighter’s Wife Rekindling Her Sex Life After Hurricane Sandy

Once a week, Daily Intelligencer takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Firefighter’s Wife Rekindling Her Sex Life After Hurricane Sandy: Female, 33, Staten Island, former teacher/stay-at-home mom, straight, married.


6 a.m. A c-ring is around Firefighter’s penis. He’s just about to climb on top of me when an alarm sounds. My eyelids spring open. I’m not in a firehouse. I’m at home and the bed is empty.

6:05 a.m. Firefighter (my husband) enters the bedroom for a kiss good-bye before leaving for work. I beg him for a quickie. It’s been over a month since we’ve had sex and my body needs a jolt; vibrators don’t do it for me. He says that he can’t because he has to stop off at the ATM and then get gas in the truck, which could take forever if not timed right. I understand. Caffeine is the only surge I’m getting. Coffee it is.

10:30 a.m. Munchkin goes down for a nap. I sit at the kitchen table daydreaming of Firefighter and the crazy sex we had a while back in his pickup on the side of a desolate road. Spontaneous romps are rare as parents, and now with Firefighter’s hectic work schedule since Hurricane Sandy, it’s even worse. The super storm that wiped out neighborhoods also took whatever sex lives we had with it. Determined to rebuild, I conclude that a trip to a lingerie shop is needed. 

2 p.m. I march into Frederick’s of Hollywood at the local mall, on a mission to re-spark our like-new marriage of two years, and head straight to the wall where all of the red lingerie is displayed. Red looks good on my Italian skin. It’s also the color of our favorite things: fire trucks, a good blaze, sweaty faces post-orgasm. I hold up a lace teddy and poke a finger through the slits cut into the cup of each breast. It’s sexy. The purchase is made.

4 p.m. Shopping bag is stowed in the closet for tonight.

6 p.m. Dinner is in the oven. Firefighter calls from the station and informs me that he’s “awaiting relief.” In fireman’s terms, this means he’ll be home late. Munchkin and I eat supper; a plate is put aside for Firefighter.

7 p.m. Munchkin goes to bed. Mommy has wine.

8 p.m. Firefighter kisses my forehead. I hop up from the couch, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth, and say hello. He plops down beside me and removes his shoes. In a sleepy (and still tipsy) haze, I ask about his day. When he questions mine in reciprocation, I randomly mention how horny I’ve been. He laughs, noting my grape-stained lips, and says tomorrow is better for that stuff.

8:02 p.m. Bag stays in the closet.             


6 a.m. Firefighter’s body rustles under the sheets and his warm skin touches my backside. The fire in my panties is instant. I slowly gyrate my hips, feeling his morning erection. Feeling his breath down my neck perks my nipples. I reach up and grab his hair. He kisses my nape softly then pinches the skin with his teeth. I let out a little moan, but Munchkin’s cry over the baby monitor interjects. Flames are doused.  

10:30 a.m. After a morning of eggs, bacon, and family time, Munchkin falls asleep in Firefighter’s arms. I take the baby and tiptoe to the crib, then head to the shower as Firefighter watches something on the DVR.

10:45 a.m. When I turn off the spigot and pull the curtain, Firefighter is standing in front of me, naked and hard, shaking a can of whipped cream in his hand. I smile, laugh, and reach for a towel all at once.

10:46 a.m. Note to self: save lingerie for another day.

10:47 a.m. I’m on my knees. Whipped cream is sticky, but tastes so good.

10:55 a.m. Firefighter lifts me up onto the countertop, aims the can at my vagina, and proceeds to eat dessert before the main course is served.  

11:10 a.m. After we climax, we get in the shower and rinse each other off, laughing at the goopy mess we made.

3:30 p.m. Firefighter leaves for work. He won’t be home until tomorrow night. As I begin housework, Munchkin runs around with the brush attachment of the vacuum, yelling, “Me help Mommy!” I love this child.  


11 a.m. I use “me time” to rifle through my underwear drawer. The c-ring from the dream the other morning is in there along with cuffs, lube, lotions, a vibrator (whose batteries are beyond dead), and a G-string made of sugar candies. I take a bite. It’s stale. We need updated sex things. 

11:10 a.m. After thinking about it a little more, decide we don’t need more sex things, we just have to start dressing up again. I have to wear the new Frederick’s number and he his uniform.

11:15 a.m. Send Firefighter a text asking him to bring his bunker gear home tonight, to which he replies, “I think that can be arranged.”

6:30 p.m. Firefighter comes home. As he plays with Munchkin, I spy the bunker pants and boots by the front door. Winning.

8 p.m. The tags are cut off the teddy. I slip it on and adjust the cups, making sure the girls are in place.

8:01 p.m. Go into the bedroom, but Firefighter is not there.

8:02 p.m. Check the living room. Nope. Kitchen? No. I walk downstairs to the family room. Wrong again.

8:05 p.m. I enter the garage, the only place left to look. Jackpot. Firefighter is in uniform sitting on his Harley Davidson with a lit cigar in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He compliments my outfit as I walk over and hands me the cup. (He’s not a drinker.) I sip the alcohol and then lean in for a puff of his big cherry-flavored tobacco stick.  

8:08 p.m. Firefighter takes the wine glass from my hand, puts the cigar in it, and sets it aside. He then lifts me onto the machinery so I’m straddling him. He immediately discovers the holes in the bust of the undergarment with his tongue. I slip my fingers between the suspenders holding up his pants and yank at them.

8:15 p.m. Firefighter removes his helmet and lays me back against the leather seat. Sex on a motorcycle is hot, but sex on a bike with a fireman, well, now you’re talking.


6:30 a.m. Firefighter readies for a 24-hour shift. I feed Munchkin breakfast. There’s a feel-good vibe in the air.

7 a.m. As Munchkin plays with blocks, I sit at the table sipping coffee, images of last night replaying in my mind. And to think it all started with a simple alcohol-induced confession about being horny.

10:35 a.m. After showering, I snap a picture of myself in the candy G-string and send it via text to Firefighter.


10 a.m. Firefighter isn’t home from work yet, and when he gets back, it’ll be only a few hours before he returns for another fifteen-hour shift. 

10:30 a.m. After kissing me hello, Firefighter sneaks a squeeze of my butt when Munchkin isn’t looking.

11 a.m. Firefighter falls asleep on the couch. I put Munchkin in for a nap and head to bed, too. It’s gray outside, a perfect day for lounging in sweatpants.

9 p.m. I’m fired up! Jarhead is on television. I replay the scene where Jake Gyllenhaal bangs his girlfriend against the wall until I practically squirt on the remote control.


10:15 a.m. Firefighter is off tonight and we’re going on a date. The last time we did this was for his birthday back in September, so I’m pretty stoked about it. 

2:30 p.m. Munchkin is busy playing with Grandma and Grandpa. We tiptoe out the back door and sprint to the car. Once Munchkin was born, we traded date nights for date days. Life is much easier this way.

2:45 p.m. We arrive at La Bella restaurant, where Firefighter and I had our first dinner together back in 2008. It’s become our place of choice for anniversaries and other occasions when eating good Italian food is on the to-do list.

2:50 p.m. What’s great about date days are the lunch specials. Oh, and the pre-happy-hour drink prices! I order a glass of Chianti and the chicken parmesan. 

4 p.m. After the meal, we head to a coffee shop for dessert. We’ve vowed not to talk about bills and babies on dates, but sometimes it creeps into conversations anyway. Firefighter compliments my work as a stay-at-home mom and says that my former profession as a teacher is showing. At a year-and-a-half-old, Munchkin can recite most of the alphabet and counts to five. The flattery turns me on.   

4:30 p.m. We’re making out like teenagers in the car. I’m yearning for it to go further, but the parking lot is bustling with people. Firefighter revs the engine and we leave.

4:33 p.m. On the road, I instruct him to keep driving as I discreetly unzip his jeans and rest my hand on him.

4:37 p.m. We can’t keep this up for long, even on a not busy road. Firefighter pulls over to the side of a deserted road. I give him head until he comes two minutes later. I resume my position in the passenger seat, swipe my mouth with a tissue, and pop in a Listerine strip, happy I could be of service to my husband; there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this man.         


6:30 a.m. Munchkin and I wave good-bye to Firefighter from the window as he leaves for a day shift.

9:45 a.m. After grocery shopping, Munchkin and I bake cookies and draw pictures for our Firefighter using crayons. I turn some of Munchkin’s scribbles into a family of three stick figures and then add in a fourth member. Firefighter and I were recently expecting another child, but I miscarried. I stare down at the drawing, briefly remembering the ordeal, when Munchkin hands me a red crayon and lets out a giggle. I’m so in love with this little being, it hurts. I want Munchkin to have a sibling. I draw a heart on the paper for Munchkin and then retreat to the bathroom to cry in private, but when I enter I remember the whipped cream fun with Firefighter and let out a chuckle. The best part about getting pregnant is definitely the trying.    

TOTALS: One wet dream; one hot fireman; one trip to the lingerie store; one stale pair of edible underwear; two acts of intercourse; two acts of fellatio given; one act of cunnilingus received; two acts of foreplay; one act of masturbation; one naughty picture text sent.

Staten Island Mom Sex Diary