This is all about sex.
Over the last couple of years, my marital sex life has taken something of a hit below the belt, and not in the good way. For the first seven to eight years of our marriage, my wife and I had sex frequently and vigorously. I won’t even talk about the years before we were married. We indulged happily in quickies, maintenance sex, and elaborate love-fests that went on for hours and involved costume changes, props, soundtracks, lighting, and the occasional audience. Indoors, outdoors, upside down, backwards, in sickness and in health.
During the time I was unemployed I noticed things were tapering off. Shortly after that I got a job with very demanding hours and unpredictable days, and arranging for marathon sex sessions became more of a chore. I take the blame for that, for being too tired and too distracted to put my priorities where they should have been. Then my brain chemistry got fucked up and we just settled into a catch-as-catch-can routine of obligatory coupling once, maybe twice a week, with a more intense am romp on a Sunday (if one of us was not off to work early on those days). It wasn’t a lack of love or commitment to our relationship or “old cow disease” or anything like that. We kind of just… fell out of the habit.
We both felt bad about the state of things, we both wanted to redress the situation. Problem was we, especially I, felt that there needed to be a grand change, a full and complete re-dedication to lusty, raunchy, sweaty, bite your lip and dig in your nails boning. A high octane Fuckapalooza to make up for the months of wandering in the deserts of lackluster sex. But various projects, work schedules and commitments competed with our plans. And our bio-schedules were often out of whack, meaning that when she was randy I was less amorous, and when I was woody, she was uninterested. Our inability to match up our schedules, libidos, and priorities actually led to a couple of arguments, which were more frustrating to us than nasty (not the good kind of nasty, either).
“You realize what we are arguing about?” I said at one point. “We are arguing about something we both want!” She agreed, but that didn’t bring us any closer to a solution. Or, I should say, a long-term solution, since we had sex right after that argument. BTW, not having sex actually makes the post-argument period much longer and difficult to resolve. We have resolved many a fierce argument with a lascivious banging, laying in the afterglow and saying “What were we mad about? Oh, who the fuck cares!”
And we both wanted to avoid the idea of “scheduling” sex. That was one thing we both brought up, and we both rejected. We didn’t need no stinkin’ calendars and dry erase boards and Iphone reminders to tell us when to get it on. But actually, we did…
I got the idea from watching something on HGTV having to do with time-share. I don’t recall what it was, I only recall we were lying in bed not having sex. I said that was what we needed: a time-share program for sex. It wasn’t even really an idea, just something to say. Then I thought about how we were working so hard to get our sex-life back to where it was all in one go, instead of what we should have been doing: Taking the big chore and breaking it down into smaller, more manageable tasks. Then I thought (and I really have to pat myself on the back for this one) “why not make this a 15 minute solution?” At one point we were having sex so rarely that we tried and tried to make it last, to make up for all the previously missed opportunities. Well, fuck that(literally). Let’s just make time out for 15 minutes of boinking. Foreplay if there’s time, if we’re in the mood. If not, well… fuck that, too. 15 minutes 3X a week added up to the same 45 minutes we were spending one day a week, but would be less stressful, less fraught with expectation (how much scheduling do you have to do around 15 minutes?), easier to act on impulsively (that means no scheduling), and also meant we were having sex 3X a week, not once or twice. And hey, more sex is more sex, no matter how many sands slip through the hour glass. I’m a genius. Someone bring the limo around while I prepare my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Sex Solutions.
I proposed this to S. and she gave a shrug and said sure, okay, like she did with all my ideas. But the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea and, most importantly, a doable idea. The next night I was working late, but I texted her at 6pm and said: “I’m coming home in 3 hours. I’m going to fuck you for 15 minutes as soon as I walk in the door. Be ready.”
“K” was the only response I got.
I got myself ready by throwing more chicken on the grill, slicing strips of rare, bloody beef, and watching Bruce Lee videos on YouTube (I make no apologies for what chefs find erotic and stimulating, and I don’t watch porn, soooo…). Once work was done I went to the bar and got two shots of bourbon on the rocks and then headed home, blaring All American Rejects and other choice artists all the way. I walked in the door and S. was literally waiting there, silk robe and naught else. With barely a “welcome home” peck on the lips, she started pulling off my clothes and we got as far as the living room sofa. I had kind of planned for something more bedroom-bound, but fuck that. We went at it like I’d been away at sea for a year. We had perfectly agreeable, perfectly satisfying sex for 15 minutes.
Now, I will say that it is very uncool to use a timer for this sort of thing. Saturday, during a 15 minute solution, I used the Iphone timer. Things went a little long, and the phone began tinging at most certainly the wrong time. S. stopped grinding and looked at the phone, then looked down at me. “What…is…that?” she asked in a tone that every married man knows means a world of shit is about to descend upon him.
“Nothing, nothing,” I gasped as I hammered the phone into silence. I tried to resume the most pleasurable rhythm we’d established, but S. had gone to stone.
“Are you… timing us?”
“No! No, baby, not at all. It’s a reminder for – something. I was supposed to do – that thing. Nothing important – ah, fuck!”
My wife leaned over me until every inch of her slick skin pressed against mine, and her nose was an inch from mine. “Oh. Well, I hope you’re not in hurry or anything. ‘Cause you’re not going anywhere for a while, you see…” And with that she resumed a subtle, swirling, torturous movement of her hips that kept bringing me close, but not giving me the cigar. When I tried to take control of the situation, she’d clamp her hand on my throat and squeeze until it became more important for me to breath than to cum. I don’t think I knew such a condition ever existed before that night. She finished with me about twenty minutes later and we certainly had nothing to argue about afterwards.
We’ve been doing this for the last two weeks, and we’ve had more sex in those 14 days than in the previous two months combined. Some 12-17 minute sessions, a couple 30-40 minutes (not that I’m timing them, no siree). Just straight fucking; no masks, no ropes, no fruit and whipped cream. We even made a plan for this week. Yes, a schedule. Soon we are going to resume our ‘date night’ routines and our ‘fantasy date’ routine, which we used to do about once or twice a month. Those take longer, require more planning and cooperation. But it is a big relief to know that those will do what they are supposed to do: provide fun and variety to our love-life, not resuscitate it. As for what we both need, a regular schedule of 15 minutes provides it quite well, it seems.
And who doesn’t have 15 minutes? 4 months ago