My wife clearly loves me because she gave conditional permission to write about this. I assumed the topic was off-limits, and I’d have to fake something else. This blog basically is about whatever is most on my mind at the end of each month, so that would have been laborious.
The condition was we had to be making progress. She knows writing things out is like therapy for me, and we also finally signed up for the real kind. By no means does she want me to share about, really, anything, so I’ll do my best to be respectful and strategically vague and humorous.
To take the edge off, we can frame this up with logic and anthropology (if that’s the right -ology). Two humans are eight years into a monogamous marriage, a natural or unnatural social construct. Either way, a construct. Perfect symmetry in sex drive seems highly unlikely to me.
Surely I am the only husband in the history of marriage to feel like he’s not having enough sex. A few times I’ve thrown tantrums and gotten temporary appeasement. But for the most part, I take it as a running joke. I make a perverted overture and fully expect to be turned down.
This birthday text thread from 2021 encapsulates how we roll. She didn’t respond for 12 hours and then sent me something to buy on Wayfair. It’s like my message wasn’t even delivered. This is why I give people the courtesy of read receipts turned on.
Granted, my comment was a bit silly and I’ve played into the caricature, saving dick pics to her unattended phone and asking for oral at jarring times. These aren’t genuine attempts at “connecting”, our euphemism for “smoking the brisket”, my man-crush Glen Powell’s favorite euphemism according to Men’s Health.
But even when I’m trying, like kissing her on the neck and mouth and caressing her body somewhat sensually but mostly sweetly, I’m still quarantined in the roommate zone. And that’s OK, or at least it was. I know how to smoke my own brisket.
There must be an upper limit to the amount of times you can ejaculate into the toilet before feeling the need to reevaluate life optimization. Lately lyrics from Tracy as performed by Luke come to mind after I come by myself:
I got a job that pays all our bills
You stay out late drinking late at the bar
See more of your friends than you do of your kids
I’d always hoped for better
The verses aren’t applicable here, but the resignation is poignant. My dad’s surgery coupled with turning 40 in a few months has made me more aware than ever of finite time. How many more years of able-bodied sex do we have left anyway?
I find it incredibly disappointing we’re going out like this. I consider sexuality an important part of wellness. There is simply no way to get closer to a person than be inside of them. And if keeping the pipes clear staves off prostate cancer, I can tell you that’s one cancer I’m not worried about.
When death is a certainty, there should be some hedonistic component in how you live. I’m not saying we need to do anal in the attic. It’s a maze of wood up there and unclear which planks can safely bear weight. But this routine of my having to request if not beg for sex and then have it treated like a chore at the end of the night… I’d always hoped for better.
We both work from home, yet it’s never on the radar to take a naughty break together rather than wait until energy levels bottom out at 10 o’clock. A beautiful Texas storm overtook the sky the other day, and we have tall windows in the bedroom. I thought that would have been a nice backdrop for afternoon lovemaking.
Another night I put on the Sydney Sweeney movie “Voyeur” as the ultimate way to cap our 30-day free trial of Amazon Prime. A crazy erotic scene began starring this A-list actor, No. 1 on my list. My wife not only wouldn’t watch it with me, she left the room.
Hey if she wanted to watch a sex scene featuring her No. 1 Harry Styles, I’d go grab the life-size cardboard cutout of him preserved from her bachelorette party so he could be on the couch with us. She and I are just operating on different sexual frequencies, literally.
I don’t know if it’s a male-female difference or if that’s socialization or just a myth altogether. Certainly boys have some level of infatuation with their penises on a purely biological level.
While my younger son sounded out “Happy Mother’s Day,” his 4-year-old brother said in Mandarin, “Hurry up my wee-wee hurts.” He had an erection pressed against the car seat buckle.
As an adult if the only concern were getting rid of erections, things would be simpler. But naturally in relationships, rock-hard questions come up. Like, if I never said anything or initiated, would we just never do it? I know we get along well and have fun as a productive couple, but did she ever have a raw, physical attraction to me?
I reached a point of dejected acceptance where I didn’t even want to cuddle anymore, which is saying a lot. We usually need only a fraction of the bed because I’m so aggressive and force her to back into me or risk falling off.
The emotional and platonic touching distance bothered her, and attempts to talk it out meandered with impressive reach into tangential grievances including how much she’s on Instagram or how little I am genuinely invested in holidays. I was left in a 50-50 state of anger and confusion.
But — her idea — we scheduled a Friday 2 p.m. reconnect. I’ll omit the details, but we both made an effort to be present and committed in the moment, and we had a spectacular, passionate, animalistic time. Franklin Barbecue would be proud.
It could have been progress. It could have been a make-up call with overreaction and overcompensation. It could have been a broken clock being right once in a long while.
I don’t know. We’re trying. That’s a good sign we care enough to try. Logically and honestly though, my point was she shouldn’t have to try that hard. Sure smoking the brisket can be hard work and not always turn out, but it’s better than having no fire.