The longer you wait the harder it gets. Literally and figuratively. The expectations rise, as do the sexpectations.
It has been seven days since I produced any fresh new text. And three days since I have produced any fresh new sex. Both of these counts are significantly longer than average.
With each hour that passes I become more tense, and it becomes more difficult to produce anything. Somehow the quickie, usually a low barrier for entry feels insufficient. The post most be meaningful and humorous. The acrobatics in bed numerous. This is tiring. Even to type about. In both areas performance anxiety creeps in where it rarely rears its head.
The solution to both problems is the same.
Forget the intricate weave of insight and intercourse. Let go of lingerie and lyrics. Ignore the verse and vigor. Lower that bar down to the floor.
Step 1. Write a shitty blog post.
Step 2. Have some crummy sex.
It is likely that one of these activities will exceed my expectations. At this point all signs say it will be the sex.
One rare evening my boys and I were all sitting quietly reading. A small voice interrupted my paragraph asking “How do you spell fat?” I considered asking him how he thought it was spelled, or what he was reading, but instead answered F-A-T wanting to get right back to my book.“I thought they made a mistake- they spelled it P-H-A-T” At least I understood his confusion. “That’s a joke (do I introduce jam bands this early?) It’s the other way to make the F sound. Do you know how to spell phone?” “Yes, P-H-O-N-E, and also philosopher. P-H-I-L-O-S-O-P-H-E-R.”
Beside us Oliver is reading the second “Sidekicks” book that my mother sent him. The first was a graphic novel. As Leo phinished his book Oliver suggested that we read Sidekicks together. Leo proposed the wonderful world of cross sections. Once again superheroes trumped science so we settled in to read “Sidekicks” beside each other on the bed.
In the first scene of the book the teenage superhero sidekick rescues an attractive woman and feels something happening “below his belt.” A typical mother might have skipped it, glossed over it, or put the book down. None of these struck me as the right option.
“I’m wondering if this is interesting to 7 and 8 year olds?” I ask the boys. “Did the first book have all of this sex stuff?”
Four eyes are on me.
It is at this point that I realize any one of the other three options might have been a way to go.
“No.” Oliver says, “The other one didn’t have any sex stuff.” “What sex stuff?” Asks Leo.
I keep reading. Our sexed up sidekick is trying to calm himself down reciting math facts, and thinking about baseball. But then the woman whispers something to him and he is “standing at attention.”
I should just barrel forward bravely, but it is really difficult to ignore a vivid accident such as this one. I glance back over my shoulder. Oliver gets it.
I put the book down.
“It can be difficult to talk about.” I tell him.
“What? What is difficult to talk about?” Asks the little filisopher.
“Do you know what the character is thinking about?” I ask.
“I have an idea.” says Oliver.
“I DON”T have an idea” stresses Leo. This may be the very worst thing in the world. A conversation that he can’t follow, let alone lead, about S-E-X. This was supposed to be a superhero book and he is getting left behind.
Here Oliver sighs, squares his blue fleece clad shoulders (it is a day that ends in Y after all) and says: “You know how your penis practices getting ready to have a baby? Well. His penis is practicing.” Then he continues. “What I don’t understand is why he is embarrassed about his penis practicing, I mean everyone that has a penis has a penis that practices.”
All of a sudden Leo is the expert. “Well his penis is practicing because of that GIRL that he rescued. He doesn’t want her to find out about his penis.”
Well handled boys. But I am still here to muck things up. I read on and the word “puberty” pops up.
“What is puberty?” asks Leo. “Its when your body starts to change from a kid to a grown up. So you start to grow hair in your armpits and your voice changes and your penis practices more.” I know there are very good books to give them, and probably good books to prepare me to have this conversation, but I do not have them on hand so I go ahead and wing it.
I continue on with the sidekick book thinking about rhymes that might have clued me in to the true nature of the book.
“How much does your penis practice?” Steve is at hockey. The three simple words I. Don’t. Know. seem to have left my vocabulary. I ball park it. 50 times a day? Seems about right. Aren’t teens supposed to thing about sex 12 times a minute. Or an hour? Hm. That would be a LOT of times in a school day. The boys are waiting. Google is right here, but I decide to round down. “20 times a day when you are a teenager.” They both look down at their pajamas, one blue fleece, the other batman flannel. Oliver says: “my penis only practices like once a week or so. That will be 139 more times.” He seems impressed. Leo of the skinny jeans says: “I will wear baggy pants.”
They seem settled and not terrified by my perhaps off by a factor of ten answer. So we turn back to sidekicks. The news crew shows up. From the helicopter they shine a spotlight on our hero. “Is that a banana in your tights or are you just happy to see us?” asks the object of his affliction. The character looks down where he has ‘pitched a tent.’
“Maybe we shouldn’t read this.” Says Oliver.
“Not baggy pants.” Says Leo.
“I didn’t think it was very well written” I said.
So we turned to cross erections. I mean sections. Cross sections.
Phuck. Just look for the MC Hammer pants. Those’ll be my boys.
Some things should not be a secret. A great marriage deserves a great sex life. For that you need to fuck your husband. Remember when people didn’t talk about mental illness, and miscarriages? Wait…they still don’t. Well I do.
Remember when people didn’t talk about cancer? It was whispered, like the mere mention of the name could infect someone at the dinner table. Now the talking has led to action, and if not results at least support.
Thats how I feel about married people and sex.
What Friends Say
I mean, Redbook talks about it. Mega media talks about it. But friends…they don’t talk about it. Everyone is afraid they won’t measure up.
Talking with a friend about being an only child she got particularly interested. How was that? She asked. She might be the mom of an only child. She couldn’t imagine having another baby. She called herself one and done. Then, almost as an aside, “besides, that would mean I would have to have sex with my husband.” It was a throw away line. I imagined it was hyperbole. But worried that it wasn’t.
Be a Lazy Lover
Listen up. I am lazy, I do very very little that I don’t want to do. But I have sex with my husband. And you know what? I don’t always want to. Sometimes I really want to and that is best for both of us. But when I would rather just watch TV, or pick my toenails (I mean who can resist that sexiness) I have sex anyways. Lots of times it turns out really well. Much better than TV. Sometimes it is perfunctory. Sometimes it is really quite laughably bad. But it always makes us closer.
In my relationship I feel closer through talking, and Steve feels closer through physical contact. Imagine if Steve just decided he didn’t want to talk. I mean, really for weeks on end, he wouldn’t talk. That would be unacceptable. But women feel they can go for weeks or months on end without being physical with their husbands. I know, it is your body, blah blah, but the “have and hold” part of the vows is probably getting directly at this point.
Fight (your) Nature
It is the selfish gene at work. As women leave childbearing age it is not in nature’s interest for us to have lots of sex. Men, that works well for the species. Go ahead, spread that seed, make more of me says the gene. By 40 many women are done perpetuating our species. Although I read a lot about women’s huge sex drive in their late thirties, that does not seem to be what my friends and I are experiencing.
This tacit mythology that women have had enough sex, and the birthday blow job plus the bi-monthly Saturday sex date will keep things running smoothly. I call bullshit.
Lose your Re-Virginity
I ask questions that most people don’t. There are lots of you that are virtually revirginized in your marriages. I know the reasons. I know how tired you are. I know how much work it can feel like. Here is a not secret secret. Things will be MUCH MUCH better in your marriage if you are having sex. And I don’t mean once a week. I mean 3 to 5 times a week. [Tweet theme=”basic-white”]If you are reading this and you don’t know exactly when you last had sex you need to fix that.[/Tweet] If you are reading this and you don’t know exactly when you last had sex you need to fix that.
Here are some tips to make it go better (feel free to unsubscribe)
He thinks you are beautiful, he loves your skin and wants to touch you everywhere. It doesn’t matter if you have gained weight, have stretch marks or varicose veins, he wants you and he wants all of you.
Get a vibrator. You should come too, and it is easier with some help.
Call it a quickie. If you label it that way the pressure is off to “perform” and that liberation often makes for a better time for both of you.
Just do it. Nike had it right.
Sorry mom. Sorry Steve. Hope this helps some of you get up to get down.