His Therapy Problem

Remember a while ago, how upset I was when I realized the kids could hear Husband and I having sex? Yeah, well, I'm over it.
For the past few weeks, a pattern has established itself at Casa Cross; a ritual, if you will:
Son3 goes to sleep. Husband and I spend some time on the couch, watching t.v., talking, and catching up. While we are in the family room spending time together—in a completely innocent and vanilla setting—Son1 and Son2 are invariably in their own rooms, doing their own stuff.
Husband and I then go upstairs for some good-time-biblical-sexy-sex fun.

At some point after we are both naked, and usually, after we have started to get serious with the sexy sex
(it's never before we've taken off our clothes, it's never before we've started the scene and can just calmly interrupt the action and open the door, oh no, that would be too easy)
one of the older kids, either Son1 or Son2, comes upstairs for some stupid ass reason.
Sometimes it's to use the bathroom that's right next to our bedroom door (they have a bathroom next to their own bedrooms, but for some reason, at that time of night, they have to walk upstairs and use this one); sometimes it's to check something on the calendar on my desk (because they can't use their own fucking calendars); sometimes it's to ask Husband a question (does he want to check out this thing on Reddit right now this minute? No, he does not).

The other night, sure as shit, Husband and I got down to some yummy sexy sex...and just as he was entering me, we heard footsteps on the stairs.
The bathroom door opened, shut. The toilet flushed. The door opened and shut again.

While this was happening, Husband was not moving. I was not moving, either. (Although for different reasons: my wrists were cuffed to my ankles, and with him splayed between my legs, I couldn't really move anyway.) We waited for the footsteps to recede back downstairs and disappear.
They did not.

Husband started thrusting into me.
"What are you doing?" I hissed. "Whoever came upstairs is right outside our door. He can hear us."
"So?" Husband grunted.
"So this is not okay!" I said. "My son is listening to his parents having sex!"
Husband did not skip a beat. "Wife," he said, "this is a big fucking house. He can go somewhere else. If he chooses to be right outside our door while we're having sex, that is his therapy problem."
I was about to protest, and rather emphatically, when I realized...Husband was right.

Our kids are not children anymore, at least not our older two. Hell, they might know more about sex than I do. They've taught me about Clop Clop...but that's a topic for another post.
My point is, this was no longer something I should have to shield my kids from. This is something that goes on between their parents they should have the kindness to treat with dignity and grace.
In other words? They should give us some fucking privacy. 

So I shut my mouth...except for the moaning, of course. Husband kept going and I kept coming, and then, the sexy-sex was over.
As soon as we started walking around and making other sounds—non sexy-sex sounds—there was a knock on the door.
"Go away," I said loudly. "We're still getting dressed."
My son had the decency to give us another few minutes, I'll grant him that.