The saddest thing you can do is watch your sex life die. From the time we commit ourselves to a relationship, that’s exactly what starts happening. Here’s how it went down with mine.
[this is where I tell you that I still have sex, it’s just irregular and usually with clauses, conditions, or caveats – oh my!]
You probably think it’s especially morbid to talk about the death of my sex life. It’s cool; my husband and I already laughed about it. I got the green light to write to my heart’s content. That’s probably even more fucked up. The truth is, when it’s on – it’s red hot. When it’s not, well…we’ll get there.
I was in the shower, as I often am when these strokes of genius come (not cum) upon me; I knew I had to write. I couldn’t tell ya what sparked the topic of this blog. I have the shittiest memory recall ever. Maybe I was trying to think of a reason to get out having sex later that evening, maybe I was recalling one of our encounters – doesn’t really matter unless you’re a pervert and using this as yank material. The point is, I was overanalyzing…again.
I remember being 19, single, and making a concerted effort to pick out the “sexy panties” before going out for the evening. Great efforts were made in wardrobe selection and makeup application. Eat very little, drink plenty – that was how I lived. If I didn’t meet Mr. Right, I was pretty sure I’d get drunk enough to have a good time and probably meet Mr. Sure-To-End-Up-In-Jail. He was bound to provide entertainment and most likely another reason for my family to want to exclude me from holiday gatherings. Looking back, it’s a wonder I never spent time at the county jails bailing fuckers out.
Then, after some relationship hopping, most of us will settle on that one asshole we wish to call ours indefinitely. It happened to me, it’ll happen to you too. Fresh into this new relationship you’ll find that you can’t seem to keep your hands off one another. My husband and I found it exceptionally difficult to not have sex with one another. There was this magnetic pull that made it ok to have intercourse in cars outside of restaurants and engage in risqué behavior in public. We couldn’t help it. Pheromone junkies.
At some point, usually after a couple of years, stuff starts to slow down. At least for one of you. Admittedly, I am the car on the train that tapped the brakes.
In our relationship, things just found a natural rhythm. Sex was still a part of it, but by year 4 it was planned. Wednesday was sex night. Come Hell or high water, we were getting naked on Wednesday night. Even close friends knew that night was off the table on my social calendar. Pretty sexy, huh? Nothing like a little pre-planned sex to make you feel romantic, hot and bothered. Granted, it left a little to be desired in the way of spontaneity, but it served its purpose. We each got our cookies. It kept him in bed with me instead of the dispatcher at his work and it kept me from seeking attention from the toothless fuckers at the 7-11 near my work. I love a man in uniform.
Fast forward two more years and that tap on the brakes is now me double-pumping the brakes with both feet. That Wednesday night sex-session now has further stipulations too. I need a highlighter, protractor, pencil compass, and to consult the phases of the moon all before I can concede to coitus. Oh, and if I’ve already eaten dinner, you can forget all about any of it. I’ll be too full to even consider any of this. Death. Of. Sex.
Like I said before, when we’re on, it’s red hot. Each time I say, “why don’t we do this more often?” Because planetary alignment is a thing and it’s fucking rare. I just compared our sex life to planetary alignment. That shit is way fucked up. Frequency is important and your odds at witnessing cosmic shit decrease if you’re asleep at 9 pm every night in flannel pajamas.
19 yr. old me is disgusted with 38 yr. old me.
38 yr. old me is far more confident than 19 yr. old me, she’s just tired and full.
I think there is a switch that gets thrown at 45 when I’m all pheromones again. Unfortunately, I think that’s when my husband slows down. Hopefully, we’ll be living in Australia by then and all the controls on the vehicle will be on my side. No brake tapping for him.