Dirty talk at bedtime

It is late evening. There is nothing on the TV I feel like watching, I have finished the book I was reading, and I am bored of playing 'Super Smash Brothers' on the Wii. My mind turns, as it always does under similar circumstances, to thoughts of a 'romantic' nature.
I communicate this to my wife by crashing into the living room and announcing, in a voice that I hope is heavy with implication, that: "I am going to bed."
She does not look up from her knitting. "Yes, you should," she says. "You could do with an early night - you look awful at the moment...really tired."
"No," I say, patiently. "I mean that I am going...to bed." I arch my eyebrows in what I hope is a suggestive manner, though the effort is wasted because she still does not look up (which is perhaps just as well, because when I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror I just look confused and angry, which is not the look I was going for at all.)
"Yes, you just said that," she replies, then adds "When you get upstairs, will you check on the girls? You might need to take the little one to the toilet, she had a lot to drink this evening and I'm worried she might wet the bed again..."
I sigh, and decide that subtlety is not getting me anywhere."When I said I was going to bed, what I really meant was that I thought that we could go to bed. Together."
That finally makes her look my way. She realises the full implications of what I am suggesting and wrinkles her nose in faint distaste. I sometimes think my wife considers 'marital relations' in roughly the same way as she thinks about putting the bins out on a Thursday: it's an unwelcome chore to have to do last thing at night and she'd rather she didn't have to do it, but nonetheless she understands that for the smooth running of the household it's necessary that it happens at roughly weekly intervals.
There is a pause while she mulls my suggestion. I lurk in the doorway, feeling faintly stupid..
"But I am watching Mad Men...." she says finally, pointing at the television in case I need corroborative evidence.
"You can record it."
"Well, I suppose it's nearly finished."
"Come up after that, then..."
"Meh..." she says, which I take to mean begrudging acquiescence. Then, nodding at the TV, she adds: "Donald Draper is very sexy..."
"You can pretend I'm him if you think it will help..." I say, stalking off upstairs.
Thirty minutes later, she slides into bed next to me. Sadly, this is not the beginning of the magical experience I had been hoping for.
"Did you take the little one to the toilet?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Did she go?"
"Yes..."
"Good. Was it just a wee?"
"Yes. Look, can we talk about something else? This isn't doing much for the mood..."
"Ooh, that reminds me! Did I tell you what I read in a magazine the other day?"
"No, I don't think so."
"The thing about the underwear?"
"Underwear? No, you didn't. That sounds much more promising. What magazine was it?"
"I can't remember. A woman's magazine."
"OK. So, it's about ladies underwear? Tell me about it..."
"I read that every item of underwear that you put in your laundry bin..."
"Stop right there. This is about laundry?"
"Yes."
"Oh, for the love of..."
"Shh, listen, it's interesting...every item of underwear you put in the linen bin has, on average, a tenth of a gram of faecal matter in it..."
There is a pause.
"Can you believe that?" she adds.
"No..." I say. "And I can't believe you're telling me. In fact, why are you telling me? I don't want to know that..."
"A tenth of gram!" she says again, in wonder.
"That....that sounds like a lot of faeces..." I say weakly, noticing the linen bin by the door.
"I know - it does! They even suggested you should wear rubber gloves when you load up the washing machine..."
"Please stop talking..." I say. I can't help but notice that the linen bin looks like it has a full weeks' worth of family washing in it (and thus, if her figures are to be believed, at least two grams of family faeces).
"I put our bedsheets and the girls knickers in the same white wash all the time...they suggested you don't do that..."
"Look, I'm begging you, stop talking..."
She giggles, and puts her hand on my stomach. I recoil as if punched.
"Don't tell me you're squeamish, Mr Draper?" she says.
"Don't touch me! Did you wash those hands before you came to bed?" I shout.