In a perfect world, I would wake up early every morning, before the alarm went off, and his hand would already be running up my thigh and he’d be nuzzling my neck and without even opening our eyes, we’d have some of that quiet and slow, easy, early-morning sex, because that is the perfect way to start the day. And if I had my way, every night before we fell asleep, we’d use that last burst of energy left over from the length of the day, like flattening a tube of toothpaste from the bottom, and we’d try to be quiet, but it would be difficult (for me, anyway), and then we’d fall asleep tucked up together, wiped out in the most pleasant way. And if it was the most perfect world ever in the history of them, there would be very long lunches, with pizza ordered in, and Sundays with the bedroom door locked except for brief coffee breaks, and actually, most of Saturday, too.
I like sex. I like to be in a relationship with someone who’s got a
libido as revved up as mine, too. Previous relationships, it has not
worked out that way, the matching up of our sex drives, and it became an issue; painful, terrible, a sticking point. Or rather, a
no-sticking point? It was not simply a lack of intimacy, but became,
for me, an issue of self-esteem and desire–they didn’t want me,
anymore. It was my fault, it was my lack of skill, it was weight I had
gained, or my inability to satisfy, and it was nothing I could shake,
despite any reassurance to the contrary–no, it’s not you. But it had
to be me, because what else could it be?
It’s marked me. It’s made me equate frequency of sex with level of
desire, health of a relationship with how often we do it. As it turns
out, we can want to have sex three times a day, but life, it gets in
the way. Work gets in the way, and working late, chores and errands
and housework and obligations and other people and obligations to other
people and you can’t. Sometimes, occasionally, when you’re living in
two separate households, you don’t do it at all, in a day. And I have
to stop yoking these things together. Yoking it to my self-worth. Believing in the mornings we do have, the evenings, the afternoons, the
days we order in pizza. They’re more than enough.