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Dear Dategirl,

My live-in girlfriend and I used to have piping-hot sex with great frequency—until we got a cat. His name is Clancy and we both love him, but whenever we’re sufficiently aroused to do the nasty, he climbs onto our bed and starts purring and nuzzling. Now, when I’m on the couch watching Happy Days reruns, there’s nothing I like more than when Clancy nuzzles and purrs, but in the throes of passion, the only thing that could deflate my third limb quicker would be Chaz Bono piloting a chariot of drag kings into my bedroom. Oh, and we can’t close the door because we don’t have one between the common area and our bedroom—just beads. What to do?

—Cock-Blocked by Pussy

I feel your pain, sir. My old cat Mabel has been with me for many years, so she’s borne witness to a string of drunk uncles and has seen many things I’m sure she wishes she hadn’t. (I’m lucky she can’t talk or type.) Long before I got into my current LTR, she frankly seemed a little put off by the whole thing. So whenever things start to get humpy, she just rolls her kitty eyes and slinks off into the other room.

But when the Large Greek and I first rescued Inky the cat (at that time, Inky the kitten), except for knocking glasses of wine off the table, nothing excited him more than stalking and capturing any rhythmically moving body parts. Like a Ninja he’d eye his prey, crouch, and then—at the worst possible moment—strike.

Let me tell you, four clawed paws and a set of kitty teeth on your ass (or worse) trumps a little purring and kneading.

Like you, we also have no doors between rooms, but since being gored every time we got busy put a serious damper on our sex life, we had to find a solution. Locking him in the closet seemed harsh, since there’s no light and we figured he’d probably retaliate by shitting in our shoes or shredding our clothes. Aside from the entrance, the only other door led to the bathroom. (I’m assuming that since your relationship seems to be romantic in nature, you have one of those too.) Inky always liked the loo because there’s so much in there to keep him amused—shampoo bottles to knock around, toilet paper to unspool, drips to chase . . .

So we started planning ahead and began locking him in there when things got hot and heavy. We’d throw a ping-pong ball into the tub (he loves that), along with a couple Greenies and maybe one of his catnip mice. Then we’d slam the door, prop a chair against it, and get to town. By the time he’d removed everything from the shelves and disemboweled the toilet paper, we were done.

In an odd development, he started considering the bathroom his territory, and now he just goes in there all the time on his own. I’ll open the door and he’ll be sitting on the toilet (lid down, he’s not very smart), just looking for beauty supplies to mangle. If I go in there to poop, he scratches at the door until I let him in, then he hops up on my lap and hangs out, purring. This wouldn’t be so weird if he sat on my lap any other time, but he won’t—only when I’m on the crapper.

Once he got a little older, he stopped with the cock-block attacks, and I suspect Clancy will outgrow his fascination as well. But until then, the bathroom is your friend.

dategirl@seattleweekly.com