On sex in modern marriage

Or rather the lack thereof.

I’m gonna give you what you want, as I know that some, though by no means all of you, are here to find out the intimate secrets of my bed. So, writing from it, in a rather poisonous miasma of hangover, accompanied by both my dog and my husband, you can have it.

Until recently, despite having two demanding children, a full time job and a hectic social life (ooh check me and my busy, important lifestyle) I always had a rather healthy sex life. I’m not exactly a prude, and within the confines of hygiene and relative good sense, there’s not a lot I can’t tick of my, ahem, bucket list.

After a bit of a rough ride, so to speak, in my insecure late teens, and let’s call them “the thrush and cystitis years” of my early twenties, largely due to a combination of antibiotics and condoms, where I swung between men who I fancied who were arseholes and men that weren’t who I didn’t, as well the odd experimentation with girls to boot. Though hardly promiscuous, I was fairly happy to settle down aged 24 to adventurous monogamy with someone nice and sexy enough who gave me neither and made me eggs afterwards.

As my twenties ticked over to my thirties, and the sleep deprived toddler trenches of my late twenties were alleviated by a combination of morning telly and the DS, I experienced what many women go through, which is something of a sexual peak – as one’s eggs begin to dwindle as you rush headlong past 35 and beyond, your body naturally responds with a call to action, a hormonal klaxon telling you to “get a move on woman, time’s running out.” I began to experience what it might be like to be a teenage boy, and my husband, as a perfectly average pervert, was more than happy to go along with it.

But marriage was no barrier to getting what I wanted, and after a good few years in contented monogamy, my husband and I broadened our minds to alternative opportunities in the bedroom. And after a while, we closed them again. After a year or two of pushing my boundaries a bit, with my hormones – and Tom – in full cohoots, it all became a bit too much hassle, one way or another –  although never say never. Life is long, hard and boring and sometimes, the sweet relief of sex with a stranger is the cheapest, easiest way to alleviate the stress, although it generally comes with an emotional payback of some kind or other.

But the problem is, it’s not all that convenient to keep on fulfilling the inevitable promise of my hormones nudging me towards ever greater sexual adventures and after five years with a piece of copper blocking my portal to the next generation, I went on the pill and like that, poof, it all went away. Now I am a sexless creature, much like a child, or I imagine, someone much older who is no longer puppeteered by their glands. But in many respects, it’s nice to be so level headed. No longer do I ride the rollercoaster of emotions that began to characterise my months: a predictable pattern of roaring sex drive, headaches, breast soreness, water retention and temper. I am no longer subject to the uncontrollable outbreaks on my skin, crippling pains and unholy mess of over a week’s duration (reader, this is your penance for being so easily swayed by my click-bait headline). I feel, in short, more emotionally and physically stable, but I really, really don’t want to have sex.

So what to do about it? My husband, a stoic type who remains cheerful as long as he is fed and gets to dance like an idiot every so often on a night out; who takes pleasure in constructing Ikea furniture, making me cups of tea and producing anally retentive experiments in haute cusine, presented with a camp flourish and a toothy, puppy like anticipation of a pat on the head, says he doesn’t mind. He still grrrs at me in the shower, although I’m not feeling all that shit hot bodywise right now. I recoil like a retiring violet. I have over the march of time, become increasingly sensitive to smell and touch. Hot breath and tickled skin don’t thrill me like they used to, and my body won’t seem to play ball when its courted any more.

So is this it? Am I bowing out, resigning myself (and poor old Tom) to a life of relative sexlessness, or am I just taking a hiatus before I embark on another fertility escapade whose conclusion, like a female spider after mating, completely obliterates its original intention?

At the movement I am not sure. In my current state of future insecurity, my body is on lock down, until further notice. I struggled to socialise at last night’s gathering for Kate’s brother’s birthday despite the presence of break dancers and hip hop DJs, barbecued food and drink on tap. I panicked beforehand and then, even when I bumped into an old friend, who I was delighted to see, couldn’t manage much past the witching hour. I left poor Tom there, only mildly guilt tripping him about staying on without me on his first night out since Christmas.

This morning, kid free on Easter Sunday, I’d rather be eating chocolate in bed than “making the most” of our lie in. I should just gird my loins, grit my teeth and get on with it, but keeping him happy at the expense of my own desires was severely warned against by my post-natal psychologist, which has given me an excellent excuse never to do anything I’m not a hundred per cent up for, ever again.

So for now, the nicest thing I can manage is to let him sleep, to not wake him with my hungover anxiety and fear for the future. He’s got enough of that to look forward to over the coming weeks. So any coming he wants to do, bless him, he’ll have to do on his own terms, for some time, I expect.

Postscript:

You can disregard the above. A single kid free Sunday appears to have alleviated the worst of it, to sighs of relief all round. Alright, TMI. You can get out of my bed now, you bunch of gawpers 😉 RM.